A Thousand Words
by ladysimone3
Summary: The moment I read that tiny ad asking for an artist's model, I knew my fate was sealed. But I never could have imagined all that was in store for me. E/C, Modern Day.
1. Prologue

**A Thousand Words**

**Prologue**

_They say that a picture is worth a thousand words._

Swings in the tiny fenced-in schoolyard swayed and groaned on their rusty chains in protest of the biting winter wind that howled up the city streets. The few pedestrians that actually ventured out on this cold, cold New York day were bundled up and well protected from the frigid January temperatures and biting winds.

I made haste with my few purchases as the heavy gray clouds above threatened to let loose another winter storm, a nor'easter all the meteorologists were gleefully predicting, and I had no desire to be outside when that commenced.

I did stop, however, at the newsstand at the corner of my block for my regular fix of newspapers and magazines. I had become something of a regular there. I can only watch so much Dr. Phil and Judge Judy on afternoon television before I either want to throw the remote at the TV, or my brain turns to complete mush.

"Hi, Mr. Ramirez," I said to the man ensconced in the tiny booth.

"Cold enough for ya?" he asked jovially.

Mr. Ramirez was well dressed for the cold weather: a heavy wool plaid winter coat, a hunter's cap with the ear flaps turned down, skier's gloves and a fluffy woolen scarf that was wrapped three times around his neck. His breath puffed out around his face as he spoke, reminding me of the little dialogue balloons in the Sunday comics.

As I smiled and nodded, I turned to pick up my usual copy of _The New York Times_. My eye caught the cover of a popular fashion magazine that promised to help me rid myself of all my blemishes and flaws, and even though I didn't believe a word of it, I picked it up as well. Hey, a girl can dream, can't she? As I handed these two items to Mr. Ramirez, I noticed a stack of_ The Village Voice _off to the side. I hadn't read one of those in years. On some crazy impulse, I added that to my purchase.

"That'll be nine seventy-five."

I handed him fifteen and motioned for him to keep the change. He deserved a little something extra for being out in this weather. I stuffed my new purchases in one of my bags and continued on home as the first snowflakes began to fall.

I put my groceries away, changed clothes, put on my pink fuzzy slippers, made a cup of tea and lit a fire before settling down in my favorite overstuffed chair for a nice long evening of reading. Spot, my white Persian cat, hopped up on my lap and purred contentedly.

I glanced outside to see the snow falling fast and furious. Yep. Tomorrow would be a bitch for the commuters. Too bad I wouldn't be out there with them. Heh heh.

I read through the _Times_ first. More war, more shenanigans in Washington, more death and destruction.

"This is why I don't subscribe to the paper," I said to Spot, grimacing at all the bad news.

He looked up at me in annoyance at being disturbed, then stood and pawed at my thighs until my lap once more was deemed a suitable place for him to lay down. In a few moments he was once more off in kitty dreamland.

After I'd read "all the news that's fit to print," I set the _Times_ aside and picked up the _Voice_. I used to be a pretty regular reader; it was a good resource for keeping up with restaurants, theatre and clubs. I liked that their reviewers didn't pull any punches – if they didn't like something, they let you know about it. But, as the demands of my job slowly deprived me of a social life, I eventually stopped reading it. Why torture myself by reading about things I'd never be able to see or do?

Hmmm... Some editorials, an interesting article about city nightlife, ads for some intriguing shops (I made note of a couple I particularly wanted to visit), a few restaurant reviews and two off-off-Broadway openings. One was "complete trash" while the other showed "glimpses of genius."

I flipped through the rest of the paper, skimming most of the articles, until I reached the classifieds. For some reason classifieds, especially those in the _Voice_, have always held a strange fascination with me – what people are trying to sell or buy, who is looking for whom, what out-of-the-ordinary jobs are available in the city.

I was mildly shocked to see so many ads for phone sex operators. I really don't know why it surprised me; pretty much anything goes nowadays, especially in New York. I suppose I can be a bit prudish about such things. I laughed out loud at the mental image that popped up in my head: me in flannel pajamas and my hair up in rollers, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of me, telling the anonymous voice on the phone to "do it baby, harder, oh yeah, that's how I like it!"

I was about to close the paper and put it aside when another ad caught my attention. It was small, only a few words, and I might have missed it had it not been at the very bottom corner of the page.

"Artist's Model Wanted." And a phone number. Nothing more.

I wondered what kind of artist wanted a model, and just what kind of model he wanted.

I yawned. It was getting late, so I carried Spot with me into the bedroom and we curled up together under the warm and soft mountain of blankets and comforters on my bed. Spot loves to burrow underneath the bedcoverings in the winter; I often wonder how he doesn't suffocate under there.

I tried to go to sleep.

That tiny ad in the paper may as well have been printed in Day-Glo ink, surrounded by neon lights and accompanied by blaring horns the way it kept my attention all night.

The Voice of Reason in my head kept telling me I was an idiot to let myself get so worked up over a silly want ad.

I knew the Voice was right.

But somehow, for some reason, I couldn't get it out of my mind.

I rolled over and valiantly tried again to go to sleep.

I ended up counting the stripes on my bedroom curtains instead.

As morning rolled around, I groaned and yawned mightily. Spot emerged from somewhere down at the foot of the bed, his fur disheveled, looking smugly well rested.

"Oh, shut up," I said to him.

He glared at me, jumped off the bed and headed into the kitchen to await his breakfast.

I peered out the kitchen window as I waited for the coffee to brew. Last night's snowfall blanketed everything with a mantle of pristine white. I guessed that there was at least a foot of the white stuff on the ground.

Spot's belly having been filled, and my morning caffeine requirement having been satisfied, I picked up the paper from the coffee table.

My fate was sealed. I knew I would call.

I picked up the phone several times before I could even summon up the courage to dial the number, and it took me several attempts before I actually punched all the digits. It rang twice, and I was just about to hang up when the most... _mesmerizing_... voice I'd ever heard before in my life sounded in my ear.

And he only said one word.

"Hello?"


	2. Chapter 1, I Must Be Insane!

**A Thousand Words**

**Chapter 1**

**I Must Be Insane**

For the thousandth time I glanced at the slip of paper clutched in my mittened hand - as if I hadn't already memorized the address scrawled on it and could recite it in my sleep - and looked up at the numbers on the ancient brick buildings lining the street, trying to match one to the other.

It seemed as if I was the only person still alive in the city on this frigid, dark, depressing day as the clunking of my snow boots echoed down the street.

Was it only yesterday when the city looked so beautiful, covered with a layer of gleaming white snow, lit brilliantly by bright sunshine? How could today be so different, with the snow already so dirty, unceremoniously shoved from the streets and into the gutters, creating messy puddles of gray slush? Where had the sun gone; why was it hiding behind masses of dark, foreboding clouds?

All the rest of New York's inhabitants displayed enough common sense to stay indoors where they could keep from freezing to death. But no, not me!

I shivered despite the protection of my heavy winter coat as I kept on walking.

Then I stopped.

"What am I doing? I must be insane!" I said aloud to myself.

This was completely out of character for me. I was, after all, a highly educated woman, self sufficient, self reliant. I had friends, activities, a life.

So what the hell _was_ I doing?

I turned around to go back home, chastising myself for being such a stupid fool to even think about doing something so brainless – not to mention potentially dangerous – but after walking just half a block I found that my traitorous feet had turned back around of their own accord and once again I was headed towards my original destination.

All of a sudden I was there, standing in front of his building, shaking either from the cold or from my nerves (or both), summoning up the courage to go in. I finally climbed the steps of the front stoop, opened the door and stepped inside the tiny vestibule. I found the buzzer marked 4-B and pressed it.

"Yes?"

Even through the tinny static of the intercom, I could tell it was the same voice, with the slightest tinge of a French accent, very proper and... well, sexy. My knees suddenly went weak.

"Um, hi. Uh, it's me, Christine, um, from the ad."

_Great. Now he thinks you're a stuttering imbecile. Get a grip, woman!_

"Oh, yes. Hello. Come on up. Fourth floor." The inner door buzzed open.

Climbing the stairs, I kept thinking, _You've lost your mind. Go back home and forget all about this. _

But up I went.

My footsteps echoed in the ancient, tile-walled stairwell as I climbed up to the top floor.

I reached the fourth floor, pausing for a moment to compose myself before I lifted my hand to knock on 4-B, but the door opened before I had the chance.

There he was. I think I gasped; I really can't remember. But before I could say anything, he broke the silence.

"Thank you for coming. I'm Erik."

Erik. The name seemed so very fitting for this man who, despite the fact that he had paint smears on his hands and on his clothes, was obviously a man of style and intelligence. It had to do with the way he stood, with the way he carried himself. His dark, collar-length hair was slicked straight back from his face, but one lock didn't seem to want to cooperate and kept swooping down into his eye. He kept combing it back with his hands - not a smart move on his part, considering the paint on his fingers.

Looking back on that first meeting, I find it strange that I hardly noticed the white half-mask that covered the right side of his face.

I was too busy staring into his eyes. They were the most unusual shade of gray-green I had ever seen, and they were beautiful.

He took a step back and with one fluid motion of his arm gestured for me to enter. As I stepped over the threshold into his studio, I opened my mouth to speak and promptly sneezed at him.

I was mortified! What had I done? I just wanted a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me whole, but to my surprise I found his arm around me as he led me into the room. He guided me to a tattered sofa piled with pillows and sat me down.

"Tea?"

"No thanks," I said through my snuffles.

"It might help with your cold."

"I'm fine," I said, but I wasn't very convincing as another sneeze exploded from somewhere deep inside me. I fished a tissue from my coat pocket and wiped my nose.

"It's really no trouble at all."

He was only trying to help. I finally nodded.

"All right. Thank you."

He disappeared around a corner, and I heard noises coming from what I surmised was the kitchen. While he was gone, I pulled off my mittens and slipped off my clunky snow boots, replacing them with the pair of black high-heeled pumps I had brought in my bag. He re-appeared a few minutes later, carrying a tray laden with two steaming mugs.

He pulled up a straight-backed chair close to the sofa and sat down facing me.

"Sugar?"

"Yes, thanks."

He added a spoonful of sugar to one of the cups and handed it to me. I took it gratefully, more for the warmth it offered to my cold hands than for the liquid it held inside. I took a sip and was surprised at how good it tasted.

"This is delicious," I murmured.

"It's imported," he said offhandedly. "I'm rather particular about what I drink."

I nodded vaguely, not really knowing what to say.

We sat in a rather uncomfortable silence as we drank our tea.

I glanced around the room, noting that it was exactly as I had imagined an artist's studio would be: large, uncovered windows that provided plenty of light; no furniture except for the shabby sofa that I sat on and a few other well-worn pieces that he probably used as props; and canvases propped up everywhere. Some of them were finished works and others were in various stages of completion. They were mostly intimate portraits with a smattering of landscapes and a still life or two thrown in for good measure. They were all exquisite, full of detail and painted in rich colors. To my untrained eye he was an exceptional artist. I wondered how successful he was.

As I finished the last of my tea, he took my mug and set it back on the tray. Then he turned his attention back to me.

"All right, let's see what we've got, then."


	3. Chapter 2, Eyes on Me

**A Thousand Words**

**Chapter 2**

**Eyes on Me**

"_All right, let's see what we've got, then."_

I nodded. My hands trembling ever so slightly, I pulled off my scarf.

"I did tell you I won't be able to pay you, yes?" He said this almost timidly, fearful that I would reconsider.

I didn't answer in words, but I stood up in front of him and unbuttoned and removed my coat. I let it drop to the sofa behind me. He glanced upward at me, raising his one visible eyebrow, indicating that I was to continue. I fought the trembling in my fingers as I undid the buttons down the front of my dress, one by one. Funny – there didn't seem to be quite so many buttons when I put it on this morning. When the last one finally was open, I shrugged the dress off and it slid to the floor. Knowing what type of sitting this was to be, I hadn't bothered with the nuisance of undergarments.

His eyes traveled down the length of my naked body, but he wasn't leering - quite the opposite, in fact. He was eyeing me critically, my shape, my size. He was looking at me as any artist would evaluate a potential subject.

I'm no raving beauty - no one would ever confuse me with Claudia Schiffer - but I am comfortable with my body. Sure, I have a few extra pounds, but I'm well proportioned and healthy looking, not like all those anorexic models you see everywhere nowadays.

I am, however, self-conscious about one thing: the scar on my abdomen. It was still an angry red, and I saw that his gaze rested there more than once. My hand drew up instinctively to cover it.

"Don't do that. It's nothing to hide."

That voice again - did my knees start to liquify once more, or was it just my imagination?

I did as he asked and dropped my arm.

There should have been alarm bells going off like crazy in my head. I was naked in a stranger's art studio, for the love of Mike! I don't even like being naked in my own home! But there I was, as naked as the day I was born, with this..._ man_... staring at me, or more accurately, staring _through_ me. I couldn't hide anything from his intense gaze, and I was more than a little unnerved by it.

I was even more unnerved by the fact that those alarm bells _weren't _going off in my head. Aside from my nervousness at not having any clothes on, I was actually rather calm. Erik's quiet demeanor seemed to be contagious.

He stood, facing me, and put his hands on my shoulders. I fought to keep my composure.

"All right, why don't you sit back down here, put your feet up..." Erik positioned me on the sofa, plumping pillows behind me. I was reclining back against the arm of the sofa, with one of my arms draped gracefully along the back cushion. The pose brought a particular scene from _Titanic_ to mind, and I fought back a smile. Then he gently clasped one of my ankles and removed one of my shoes.

"No," he said more to himself than to me. "Leave the shoes on." So he deftly put the shoe back on my foot.

My skin tingled where he touched me.

_Oh, grow up_, I scolded myself. _He's not interested in you, he just wants to paint you_.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my heart rate and lower my blood pressure.

Erik stood back, critically viewing the tableau he had created, and nodded approvingly.

"Good," he said.

He picked up my coat and dress, and with an easy, languid stride, he crossed the room and carefully draped them over a chair near the front door. Then I watched him as he walked over to the opposite side of the room and chose a blank canvas, took it to his easel in the middle of the room and propped it up. It was enormous! What would I look like painted on a canvas that size?

I hadn't thought of that before.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...

"Keep your eyes focused here," he said to me. I looked over at him. "Good. Now tilt your head down just a little... over to the left... there. That's perfect. Stay just like that. Keep your eyes on me."

_Keep my eyes on him. Hmmm. That shouldn't be so hard to do._

Before I knew it, Erik was hard at work. He sketched in a few lines with charcoal first, then he took up his brush and palette and went to work.

The room was silent save for the sound of the brush scraping across the canvas and the street noise filtering in from below.

"How long have you..." I began.

"Shhh. No talking. Keep your eyes to me; I need to see your face."

So there I languished, losing all track of time, not caring how late it was. I had no other plans for the day.

Erik was seemingly lost in his work.

Whenever he peered around the canvas to see me, I would only see the unmasked side of his face. He was exceptionally good looking, what my friends and I would have termed a "hunk" when we were back in school. Finely chiseled features, jet black hair, piercing eyes, full lips. Yep. Definitely hunk material.

I briefly wondered what he hid underneath the mask.

My mind wandered: who was he, was he married, did he have a girlfriend, was he alone, was he gay?

"Stop looking down. Eyes up here," he commanded softly.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly, guilty that I had been caught daydreaming. About him.

He worked in silence, feverishly painting, oblivious to what was going on in my head.

I felt decadent, lying there naked except for my black high-heeled pumps. I had never felt so sexy in all my life. What could have been a very humiliating experience if Erik had not turned out to be such a gentleman ended up as one of the most memorable afternoons I can ever recall.

Of course, if I had an inkling that he had ulterior motives to my being there, or if he had behaved badly in any way, I simply would have walked out.

I slowly became aware of the fact that my face was flushed despite the chill in the room. Just as I convinced myself it was due to my nervousness, I began to cough. And cough. And cough.

Erik put his palette down. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said, still coughing.

"Let me get you some water."

He disappeared once more into the kitchen, this time emerging with a glass of water for me. He knelt by the sofa as I drank.

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I think we've done enough for today. Why don't you go home and rest."

"Oh. Okay then."

I was grateful to him for sending me home; I felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed.

For the first time all day I felt true embarrassment as I crossed the room to fetch my dress. I cast a furtive look at Erik as I began fastening up the many buttons and caught him in a sidelong glance at my breasts. He quickly looked away.

_So! He is interested! At least I can cross gay off the list._

After I put on my coat, I nonchalantly walked over to the easel. "Can I see?"

"No," he said, and in one quick motion he picked up a white paint-stained sheet and draped it over the canvas before I could see it. "No one sees works still in progress."

We stood silently, face to face, for a long moment. I was determined not to be the one to back down, and after a long moment he finally turned away.

"Can I call a cab for you?" he asked, busying himself with his brushes.

"No, thanks."

"You'll come back tomorrow." It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded in response. Then, without a word of goodbye, I wrapped my scarf around my neck and left the studio.

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought of nothing but Erik. He haunted me - his face, his voice, the smell of oil paints that permeated his studio and was embedded in his clothing.

He hadn't said more than two dozen words, but I knew I would never forget his voice. It was mesmerizing, soothing, enticing. And his eyes - he watched me all afternoon, taking in every detail of my body. A warmth flooded over me just thinking about how his eyes roamed over my flesh.

I tossed and turned in my bed, trying desperately to get some sleep. The coughing grew worse, making my chest hurt, and my entire body ached. All I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep, however, eluded me for the second night in a row. After I watched the sun rise, mirrored against the glass and steel building across the street, I got up and took a long, hot shower, hoping it would ease the aches that wracked my body. Having no energy to fix breakfast or eat it, I crawled back into bed.


	4. Chapter 3, Pink Bunnies

_**A/N: Thanks to all of you who have taken the time to review. I suppose I'm just like everyone else who posts here - I live for the reviews! Those of you who have not, please take a quick minute to drop me a word or two. And, to archangelo137, one of your *many* questions will be answered in this chapter. The answers to your other questions will be revealed... eventually! **_

_**Enjoy! **_

_**ls**_

**A Thousand Words**

**Chapter 3**

**Pink Bunnies**

More snow fell during the night. It did its worst to the city, effectively bringing mighty New York to its knees. The only vehicles out on the streets were the city buses, which were running on an emergency schedule, the ubiquitous New York yellow cabs and the enormous, lumbering snow plows that did their job most effectively - by pushing the snow off the streets and onto the sidewalks, making life hell for pedestrians.

If I hadn't been in dire need of groceries, I wouldn't have ventured out at all since the weather forecast predicted the temperature wouldn't rise above 25 degrees. But, poor planner that I am, I failed to stock up on necessities before the snow and so had to pay the price by braving the frigid temperatures and piles of dirty road slush. Luckily the Food Emporium is only three blocks away from my apartment building.

I really shouldn't have gone outside at all - my little cold turned out to be a full-blown case of the flu. I had a fever, chills, body aches, the whole nine yards. But, since I live alone, I have to take care of things myself. Helpful little elves aren't going to go out and do my shopping for me.

Even more than being sick, I was upset that I wouldn't be going to Erik's studio in the afternoon. I called him earlier in the day after I woke up the second time with a high fever and a headache the likes of which I hadn't experienced in years. My heart sank when I told him it would be at least a few days before I could go back. He understood, but I could tell he was disappointed. As was I.

As I trudged back home, I desperately wished I was on my way to Erik's studio instead, lying on the shabby sofa, with Erik watching me, studying me, painting me...

A familiar voice brought me back to the here and now.

"Christine! Hey, Christie!"

I turned toward the voice and saw Randy making his way to me.

Randy Chastain is an old friend of mine. We met when I first moved to New York and we dated briefly, but somehow the relationship never grew in a romantic sense. We became friends instead.

As he caught up to me, his smile faded.

"Man, you look terrible," he declared.

"Thank you very much," I retorted, giving him a nasty look.

"What I mean is, you look..." He searched his brain for a kind way to say I looked like death warmed over, trying to cover his _faux pas_.

"I know, I know, I look like shit," I said. "I've got the flu."

As if to prove my illness, I started coughing – one of those horrendous coughing fits where you feel as if you're coughing up one of your lungs.

"Holy crap, you sound like shit, too. What the hell are you doing out in this weather?"

He took my bags and we continued walking.

"I needed food."

"You could have called me."

"I thought you'd be at work."

"Are you kidding? No one's at work today. The whole city's shut down. Come on, let's get you back home and warmed up."

I felt much better after I got home and was settled on the sofa, covered up to my neck with a warm afghan. Randy insisted that I change out of the clothes I had been wearing since my pant legs were wet with dirty slush. I figured I would go for comfort and changed into my favorite flannel p.j.'s and fuzzy slippers.

Randy burst into laughter when I emerged from my bedroom in my new ensemble.

"What's so funny?" I asked, not a little defensively.

"Pink bunnies?"

He couldn't contain his laughter as he pointed to the print on my pajamas.

"Don't laugh; they're comfortable. And warm."

"Whatever."

Randy had made himself useful in the kitchen in my absence by whipping up some hot chocolate. It hit the spot, warming me up after being out in the cold for so long.

"Have you taken anything for your flu?" he asked.

"Everything you can think of. I think I just have to let it run its course."

"And, there's k...i...t...c...h...e...n! Double letter for the c, and triple word score, that comes to...57 points! Ha!"

Randy jotted down his score, gloating like he had just won a million dollars. He had suggested we play a game to cheer me up, but I suspected he was enjoying it far more than I was.

Randy was a complete dear the entire day. He put away my groceries, made us a snack and insisted that I stay on the sofa and not lift a finger. I watched him in all his domestic glory and wondered why some woman hadn't snatched him up yet.

"It's only Scrabble, Randy. Geez, I don't see how you can get so worked up about it."

I reached for a tissue and noisily blew my nose. Randy scrunched up his face at me.

"That's because you're losing. By..." he glanced at the scorepad, "...oh, by 97 points! Come on, Miss Bunny Pajamas, you can do better than that."

"Shut up."

He chuckled. "Is that the best comeback you can think of?"

"Sorry, I'm not playing my 'A' game today."

I went into another coughing fit.

"Do you mind if we finish this some other time?" I asked. "I'm really tired."

"Oh, sure. Yeah, you need your rest. Can we put it up someplace so the tiles won't be disturbed?"

He got up off the floor and carefully picked up the game board so the tiles wouldn't slide around.

"Why don't you put it up on top of the bookca..."

At that moment the room went dark.

In fact, the entire city went dark.

"What just happened?"

Randy's voice came from the far side of the room, where he was heading to put away the Scrabble board, when I heard a thud followed by a lot of tiny plinks.

"Ow! Ow! Shitshitshit!"

"Randy? Are you all right? Where are you?"

I reached over to the end table and fumbled around in the drawer until I found the small flashlight I kept there. I prayed that the batteries were still good since I hadn't used it in such a long time, and when I clicked the switch and the light came on I whispered a quiet "thank you" to no one in particular. I angled the beam of light to see Randy sitting on the floor, holding one stockinged foot gingerly in his hand. The Scrabble board lay on the floor, its tiles scattered all over the hardwood.

"Oh God, Randy, we have to get those tiles off the floor before Spot thinks they're his midnight treat," I said.

I sprang off the sofa and was immediately on my hands and knees, picking up the tiny wood squares.

"He'd really eat them?" he asked, looking at the wood tiles in his hand.

"He ate some paper clips off my desk once, and we wound up in the kitty emergency room," I replied, not stopping in my quest to retrieve all the tiles.

Still massaging his foot, he joined me on the floor and helped me to finish collecting the game pieces, aided by the now-faltering beam of the flashlight.

"How's your foot?"

"It hurts," he said.

"Big baby."

"You try stubbing your toe on the ottoman and see how it feels."

"I do it all the time," I retorted.

"Shut up."

Im fact, I really did stub my toe on that monstrosity of an ottoman quite regularly. I don't know if it's just my clumsiness, or if the ottoman is possessed by the devil and moves itself into my path, but its wooden feet really do hurt when you bang your foot into them. The only reason I haven't chucked it out the window is that it's really comfortable to prop your feet on when curling up in the big chair. I suppose life is full of tradeoffs.

I peeked under the sofa and chair - and the demonic ottoman - satisfied that we got all the pieces.

"Doesn't look like we'll be finishing that game after all," I said philosophically as I lit a few candles around the room.

"Nope."

"Also doesn't look like you'll be going home tonight." I settled back on the sofa and wiped my nose for the thousandth time.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Well," I said matter-of-factly, "we're in the middle of a blackout. It wouldn't be safe for you to be out on the streets, and I would feel safer if you were here with me. So you're staying."

"If Your Highness wishes..."

"She does."

I was so glad I at least remembered to stock up on firewood. After a dinner of cold sandwiches and lukewarm hot chocolate, I pulled blankets and comforters off my bed (and a few extras out of the linen closet) and we both curled up in front of the tiny fireplace. True to form, Spot disappeared under the blankets and was only discernible as a purring lump down by my feet.

Lying on the floor next to Randy, I got the most sleep I had had in days. But, before I finally drifted off into La-La Land, my thoughts weren't about the man beside me, the one who spent most of the day looking after me, taking care of me, making silly faces to get me to smile. My mind was on a mysterious, enigmatic masked man - and when I would be able to see him again.


	5. Chapter 4, When I Dream

_Author's Note: This story earns its rating beginning with this chapter.  
You have been warned. Youngsters, BEGONE!_  
_Also - I should have done this at the very beginning of the story:_  
_Disclaimer: Don't own, have no rights, only borrowing, yadda, yadda, yadda..._  
_Thanks to all who have reviewed! You rock!_

**A Thousand Words  
Chapter 4**  
**When I Dream**

The blackout ended sometime during the night. When Randy and I awoke, the lights were back on and all my clocks were flashing 12:00... 12:00... 12:00...

Randy insisted on cooking breakfast for me, and he went a little overboard with it: pancakes, bacon, eggs, English muffins with butter and marmalade and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I had no idea all that tasty food was lurking in my kitchen.

Again I wondered why Randy, who was so thoughtful and caring and giving - and could cook, too - was still single.

Randy and I talked and laughed all the way through our morning meal. I was amazed at how much I ate - for me, being sick usually meant nothing but chicken soup and dry toast, but this morning the smell of bacon frying and pancakes sizzling on the griddle had my mouth watering and my stomach growling. Like Winnie the Pooh, I had a "rumbly in my tumbly." And, the food was so good that I couldn't resist it.

I insisted that Randy go home after breakfast. He put up a fight, saying that I was sick and needed looking after, but I assured him that I was a big girl and could take care of myself.

I practically had to shove him out the door to get him to leave. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate all his help and everything he'd done for me, because I really did, but I just wanted to be alone. I'm like that when I'm sick.

And I had certain things - or rather, a certain someone - on my mind.

* * *

Erik peered around the edge of the canvas, and I could tell from the expression on the unmasked side of his face that he definitely was not studying me for the portrait. Our eyes met and held for a long moment, and then in a flash he had divested himself of his palette and brush and was hovering above me where I lay, naked and wanting, on the threadbare sofa.

I gazed up at him; he gazed down at me.

Erik's eyes were dark, his pupils dilated with his desire for me. I felt the soft tendrils of his shaky breaths caress my face as he came nearer and nearer to me.

Before I had the chance to say anything or even form a coherent thought in my head, he was kissing me, tasting me, taunting me, worshiping me. I moaned as my arms wound about his neck to draw him even closer. His weight seemed to crush me as his body descended on mine, trapping me beneath him, but I didn't care. I _couldn't_ care about anything in the world but his lips on mine, his tongue dancing with mine, his breath mingling with mine.

I suddenly was acutely aware of his hands, his masterful hands that swept all over my body. My skin erupted in gooseflesh, yet at the same time seemed to be on fire, everywhere he touched me.

Erik's lips left mine and settled on the left side of my neck. I felt the warm, slight scratchiness of the stubble on his cheek against my shoulder and the cool smoothness of his mask against my jaw. The difference between the two textures was an unusual sensation, and I rubbed my face along the smooth contours of the mask. I know he felt it because as I did, I heard him utter a sound that was something between a growl and a moan. It was a sound I had never heard from any man before, and the vibrations from that groan against my skin sent a shockwave through me that threw all of my senses into overdrive.

I began tearing at his denim workshirt, wanting it off, wanting to feel his bare skin against mine. Buttons popped and fabric ripped, and in a matter of seconds it lay in a torn and tattered heap on the floor beside the sofa. Erik turned back to me, his stormy green eyes gazing intently into mine, before he buried his head at the base of my neck. I felt his lips and tongue tasting me, moving over to my shoulder, back to my throat, then down my chest. I gasped as he took one of my breasts in his mouth, suckling as if he couldn't get enough of me.

"Oh, Christine," he murmured as he came up for air and gazed down at me again. "You are so beautiful." Then he dipped his head back down, and we both were in a state of ecstasy once more.

One of his hands traveled down my side, to my hip, to my thigh, then adeptly slipped in between my legs. I eagerly parted my thighs in anticipation of what I hoped would come next. I didn't have to wait for long; his dexterous fingers soon were giving me an exquisite pleasure that I had never known before. He knew exactly where to touch, precisely what to do to drive me wild. It was as if he already knew me - and not just in the Biblical sense of the word.

My hips gyrated, completely of their own accord, against his hand. As soon as Erik felt me move against him, he moaned low and long with my nipple still in his mouth. As before, I felt the vibrations of that moan in every cell of my body.

In a matter of seconds I was near my climax. I threw my head back against the pillows, moaning Erik's name. I could feel every muscle tightening in anticipation of my coming orgasm.

Any second now...

Any second now...

I sat bolt upright in my bed, drenched in sweat, trembling from the violent climax I had just experienced. The room was dark, and the only sounds I could hear were my own gasps as I tried to coax some air into my lungs. I was wearing my flannel pajamas but the top was unbuttoned, exposing my breasts and stomach, and the elastic waist of the pants was pushed down past my hips.

Oh. Holy. Shit.

Had I just dreamed that entire encounter? Please tell me that I didn't bring myself to climax while I was dreaming of _him_!

The chilled air of my bedroom against my sweaty skin brought me back to reality. I ungracefully yanked up my pajama bottoms and hastily re-buttoned my top.

Part of me was mortified over what had just happened, but another part simply felt too good to give a damn.

I fell back against my pillows with a huge sigh. I still felt the after effects of my dream-sex: my heart was pounding inside my ribcage, my breathing was erratic and my entire body tingled.

I thought about the dream for a few moments. Was I glad it was just that - a dream?

Yes. No. _Yes! NO!_

_Dammit woman, it was a dream, he didn't molest you. And if you think about it, he didn't technically make love to you, he just kissed you and touched you. And you touched yourself. Right? _Riiiiight. He touched me. And touched me. And touched me. I'd never felt so good as I did when he put his hands on me. _Your dream was pretty tame, if you think about it. It could have been much more intense._ Yes, so why wasn't it? Why did I have to wake up when I did? Stupid, stupid me!

Lazily I brought one hand up to touch the breast Erik suckled in my dream. Even through the flannel, I could feel that it was still tight and hard. My feather-light touch was enough to send a new spark of excitement to my nether region, and I squirmed involuntarily on the bed. I moaned quietly as that hand slid under my pajama top, seeking my hardened nipple, and my other hand made its way down past the waistband of my pajama pants.

Sated for a second time that night, I laid back against my pillows and wondered two things: would Erik be as good in real life as he was in my dream, and would I ever get the chance to find out?

* * *

Four long, angst-filled days later, I was finally fever-free and feeling well enough to be back at Erik's studio. He smiled at me in welcome as I entered Apartment 4-B for the first time in nearly a week.

I found it impossible to look him in the eye after my sultry encounter with dream-Erik (who, I'm happy to report, was gracious enough to call on me every night after that initial visit), so I found myself talking to the second button on real-Erik's denim shirt as I felt the heat of embarrassment - and yes, even lust - stain my cheeks. It certainly didn't help matters that real-Erik's shirt was open just enough to reveal a smattering of dark chest hair, just like I had seen on dream-Erik, and as I stared at real-Erik's second button I couldn't help but remember ripping off dream-Erik's shirt during our passionate encounter. I knew my face was growing redder by the second.

Real-Erik politely inquired after my health in his incredibly sexy, slightly tinged French accent, wanting to make sure I truly was fully recuperated. I assured his second button that I was well. He made some tea for me, but then he was back to his normal, introverted, quiet self.

Soon he was half-hidden behind the canvas once again, peeking around the side every so often to study me as I lay in all my naked glory on the threadbare sofa.

I, on the other hand, was about to go insane with the jumble of thoughts running around in my head. I was attracted to this enigmatic man, to be sure, but I knew next to nothing about him. I had to stop thinking about him in that way - and soon - or I would lose my mind.

"Are you all right?"

Erik's voice cut through the silence, bringing me back into the present - into the little studio with the very man who monopolized my thoughts.

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

"You look... well, you look a little flushed. Are you sure you're well enough to be out and about?"

_He's concerned about me! That's a good sign._

"I'm fine, really," I assured him as I pressed a hand to my face. It was no wonder that I was flushed with the thoughts running around in my head. My face felt hot to the touch. I had no idea that my emotions played out so conspicuously on my face!

Erik eyed me with his one visible eyebrow raised. "All right,..." he began dubiously, "...but if you feel the need to rest, please let me know."

"I will," I said as I offered a tentative smile.

_Holy crap! That was a close call! You've got to think about something else_. _Force yourself to concentrate on something - ANYthing other than him. Geez, I feel like a kid with a short attention span! Why can't I think about anything else but him? All right, think... think... I've got to do something to keep my mind occupied. What was it that Mom and Dad did to keep us occupied on our car trips? What did we do, what did we do... We played the license plate game._

I smiled inwardly at the memories these thoughts conjured up. Our family - Dad, Mom, me and my kid sister Caroline - had taken many "car vacations," traveling all over the country to visit various places like the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore and Gettysburg, but the down side of those trips was being cooped up in the car for days on end. This was before the invention of portable DVD players, so we had to rely on other things to keep us occupied. Mom would make up sheets with the names of all the states, and we checked off the little boxes next to the names whenever we saw a car with a license plate from that state. That, and a shoebox filled with cassettes for our Walkmans, crossword puzzles and small games, was the extent of our amusement on those trips.

_Okay then. Why don't I try to name all the states? Why don't I name all the states, going from west to east. Okay. Hawaii, Alaska, Erik, California, Washington, Oregon, Erik's eyes, Idaho, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Erik's lips, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Erik's ass, Erik, Erik, Erik... Oh shit, this isn't doing any good!_

I shifted my position a bit to ease the ache in my backside. If Erik noticed, he didn't say anything.

I needed something to really tax my brain.

_All right. States... states...Walkmans... states... music... states... think of all the music groups you can that have a state in their names. Or even a city. _That should keep me occupied for a while. _Kansas. Alabama._ _Chicago. Boston. _Those were the easy ones, but I knew there were more. _Miami Sound Machine. Little Texas. Manhattan Transfer_. Hmmm. This was harder than I thought it would be. That's a good thing. _Okay. There was Black Oak Arkansas. And Kentucky Headhunters. And Buffalo Springfield. That's a twofer. And Rick Springfield. He's not a group, but I guess I can still count him. I suppose I could count John Denver then, too. And then there's that Scottish band called Texas. Didn't say the state couldn't be used twice. But what others...?_

"You're scowling."

Erik's voice brought me out of my reverie. I shot a glance up to him. He was watching me intently.

"Sorry," was all I could manage to say.

"You looked like you were deep in thought. Might I ask what had your attention?"

_Well, you see Erik, I've been having these unbelievably intense, erotic dreams about you, and I can't get you out of my head, so I've been trying really hard to think about completely idiotic, mundane things so I won't just run over there and rip off your clothes... _Yeah, that would go over really well!

"I... ahh... oh, it was nothing, really. Just going over my shopping list for later."

I'm sure the blush that erupted on my cheeks betrayed my words.

He studied me for a moment.

"You must take your shopping seriously."


	6. Chapter 5, Time for a Break

_**Okay, so I disappeared off the face of the earth the past year. Illness, work, stress, blah blah blah... you know the story. Haven't even logged into for several months. Just wanted you to know that I appreciated all your reviews in my absence, and as penance for taking soooooo long to post a new chapter, I'm posting two! Hope you like them. Please *feel free* to drop a review or three; you know how we writers LOVE to get them! On with the saga...**_

_**Oh yeah, I should warn you that this chapter gets pretty intense starting about 1/4 way down. Don't read if you're not into that sort of thing!**_

**A Thousand Words**

**Chapter 5**

**Time for a Break**

_[in which Erik is oblivious no longer]_

"You're late." His tone wasn't accusatory; he was simply stating a fact.

Erik stood in the open doorway, in all his paint-spattered glory, and my heart rate increased significantly at the sight of him. I tried to appear nonchalant as I shook the snow from my coat and stamped clumps of street slush from my boots.

"I told you yesterday that I had an appointment today. They kept me longer than I anticipated." I reached in my pocket for a tissue to wipe my nose.

"Ah, yes, I remember. I suppose you're forgiven, then."

As I removed my coat, I noticed that he was already at work - his palette was resting on a cart near the easel.

"Well, let's get started, shall we," he said as he went back over to the canvas.

I nodded and quickly removed my snow boots, jeans and sweater and put on my black pumps. Even though he had already seen me in all my "naked glory" so many times, it still was awkward for me to take off and put on my clothes in front of him. It might be because of those incredibly erotic dreams that haunted me, I don't know; but I turned my back to him as I slipped off my clothes. I silently re-positioned myself on the sofa, and then Erik was instantly at my side, guiding my arm this way, my head that way. My head swam from his breath on my skin, from his enticing scent, just from his _nearness_. I was so aware of his proximity...

Then he was back at work, applying paint to canvas. I lay there, staring at him for what could have been hours but in reality may have been only minutes. Time didn't seem to follow its normal rules here in Erik's studio. As I watched him working, I tried to memorize every feature of his face - the half I could see, anyway.

It wasn't until my stomach growled – quite loudly – that I remembered I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

Erik glanced at me with his eyebrow raised in amusement. He heard it too. I wanted to melt into the sofa from sheer embarrassment.

"Time for a break, I think," he said with a small smile. He set down his brush and palette. "You can put on that robe over there if you like." He draped the unfinished canvas with the sheet.

I hadn't noticed it, a black kimono draped over the far end of the sofa. I reached for it and put it on. Erik disappeared into the back and returned almost immediately with a tray of bread and cheese in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other as I tied the sash.

We settled on a thick blanket laid out in a far corner of the room, and Erik pulled the cork in the wine bottle. It was a good wine; I briefly wondered how a starving artist could afford such luxuries. He poured two glasses and handed one to me. We raised them in a silent toast.

Erik leaned back against the wall, stretching out his long legs in front of him. I sat facing him and pulled off my pumps. I curled my legs under me, trying to warm my feet.

We drank and ate in silence.

I reached across him to pick up a morsel from the tray, and my kimono fell open against the pull of my outstretched arm, exposing one of my breasts. I could feel Erik's eyes burning into my skin as they traveled down from my face to the swell of my pale flesh against the black satin robe. He lifted one hand to slowly push the fabric away further, but he did not touch me. I drew in a shaky breath.

Our eyes met once more. He raised his visible eyebrow in a silent question to me. Never breaking eye contact, I gave him the tiniest of nods in acquiescence. One side of his mouth curled up in an enigmatic smile as he slowly leaned forward and lowered his head to my breast. His lips ever-so-lightly touched the hard skin of my erect nipple, and then I felt the warm wetness of his tongue. A moan escaped my lips. He moved on to my second breast with his lips, teasing and tantalizing, while his hand drew up to caress the first. His graceful hands with their long, slender fingers never stopped moving, touching, exploring my skin.

I ran my fingers through Erik's ebony hair. It was soft and silky. I could smell the sharp tang of oil paints on his clothes. I pulled him in closer to me, cradling his head between my breasts. I knew he could hear and feel the heavy pounding of my heart.

Was this really happening? I had wanted it, _dreamed_ of it actually, but I never thought it would ever come to pass. I have never been lucky in the romance department. I hesitate even to admit how long it had been since I had a man in my bed. We weren't exactly in bed, but this wasn't the time to nitpick over semantics.

With one shrug, the kimono fell from my shoulders. I struggled to untie the sash that would free me completely from this suddenly unbearably heavy and constricting garment, and when I finally managed to loosen the knot the robe lay in a soft heap on the floor around me.

Erik brought his face up to meet mine. Our eyes locked as we drew nearer and nearer, and then our lips met in a hot, passionate rage. At that point my mind went blank. All I could think about was the unbridled heat of desire racing through my veins. His lips left mine, traveling down my throat, up to my ear, and back to my own waiting mouth, leaving a wet trail sizzling on my skin. Our tongues met, touched, and slid against each other in an epic exploration that seemed to last a lifetime.

His arms snaked around me, pulling me in closer to him, and I found myself leaning against his solid chest. My bare skin was shocked by the roughness of his denim workshirt, and I struggled to remove it. Ah, yes! Smooth skin, warm and inviting. I ran my hands up and down his bare chest, feeling his prickly chest hairs and the soft, warm skin underneath. He tensed at my first touch, but then relaxed and allowed my fingertips to continue their exploration.

Out of breath, I finally pulled away from his deep, insistent kisses. He wanted more, his hands indicated as they reached for me, but I backed away. Never taking my eyes away from his, I reached for my glass and took a deep drink. I moved in closer, closer, our eyes still locked, my wine-covered lips hovering above his, just a hair's breadth away. He strained his lips to meet mine, open and wanting, and I finally relented, allowing him to taste the sweet wine still lingering there. A groan emanated from somewhere deep inside him.

I couldn't bear the wait of seeing him in all his glory, so I slowly reached back behind me and pulled off his shoes. Then I unbuckled his belt and began to undo his fly. He lifted his hips from the floor to allow me to pull his jeans down and off, and I was surprised - but not displeased - to find that he wore no undergarments. _Going commando, is he? That's just fine; there's less for us to have to remove_.

I marveled at his long, muscular legs. I traced the length of one leg with my fingertips, from foot to knee, from knee to hip. But I couldn't tear my gaze away from the dark growth of hair between his legs, and from the spectacular male organ that emerged from it.

I teased him, I must confess. My fingertips just barely grazed the surface of his shaft as I leaned over and tasted the flesh of his chest. I licked his skin, tasting the saltiness, as I took in his aroma. He no longer smelled of his paints; now I smelled pure sex.

At that moment I wanted him inside me.

But no, not just yet.

I kept on torturing his erection with my fingers, alternately gliding the soft pads of my fingertips up one side and then gently scraping the edges of my nails down the other. Erik's breathing was more labored, and I could hear every inhale and exhale he made. I kissed down the length of his chest, getting closer to the object of my obsession, and his hands were guiding me there, pushing my head down lower and lower. He dug his heels into the floor.

My soft lips met his hard erection, and Erik tensed every muscle in his body. He remained paralyzed as I continued my exploration, touching, licking, kissing. I took him fully in my mouth, tasting him and teasing him. I retreated and advanced again and again. Then I pulled back.

"Christine, please don't st..."

"Shhh, let's not hurry. We have all the time in the world."

I crept back up to face him and covered his lips with mine. His hands were tangled in my hair. I reached back down to his groin, planning to continue with my hand what my mouth had begun, when suddenly I found myself flung on my back with my arms pinned to the floor.

"I'll teach you not to tease, my dear," he growled in a low voice. His breathing was ragged; his chest was heaving.

Erik was hovering over me, staring hungrily into my eyes. He spread my legs apart with one knee and then brought it up to fit tightly against me. Now it was my turn to moan at the promise of what was to come. He kissed me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth, stealing my breath away. And because of the proximity of his knee and the fact that my arms were still held down, I was unable to move.

Huh. As if I wanted to.

He again found my breasts, and he spent what seemed like hours tantalizingly moving from one to the other. He held them in his hands, kneading and squeezing them, licking and kissing them, until I thought I would go mad. I moved my hips back and forth, shamelessly grinding myself against his knee. I took hold of one of his hands and brought it to my mouth, kissing each fingertip, then taking each finger in turn into my mouth, reminding him of what I had done moments earlier to another of his body parts. In response, he shoved his knee even tighter between my legs and moved his kisses down my belly, covering every inch of flesh with his lips. He reached my scar and I flinched. He stopped and gazed up at me with passion-filled eyes.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," I gasped.

"Then don't worry about it. It's fine. It's beautiful."

He resumed his work. He removed his knee from its resting place (and I emitted a cry of protest as he did so), but he immediately replaced it with his hand. And then his fingers began their exploration. I spread my legs wider in invitation. I was wet with anticipation, and his slender fingers slid easily into all my most secret places. All the while he continued his assault of my torso with kisses, moving from my navel to the fullness of my hip to the curve of my waist to the swells of my breasts. He was systematically memorizing every inch of my body. His fingers, meanwhile, continued their own exploration. I cried out as he slid two fingers inside me, deep inside. My hips rose off the floor.

"Oh, God, Erik," I cried, trying in vain to hold back the tears welling up in my eyes. I couldn't catch my breath.

"Erik, please..." I tried to guide him atop me, but realizing what I was doing, he raised his head and grinned a sly little grin at me. Then his head lowered back down, and he resumed his previous actions.

He was resisting me! He was torturing me!

"Oh - please don't - make me - beg for you," I whispered through gasps for air.

Erik ignored my pleas, bringing his lips ever closer to my aching, throbbing sex. Then he was there, his tongue licking me as his fingers moved rhythmically inside me. I felt the contrast of the warmth of his skin on the exposed side of his face on the inside of one thigh to the cool, smooth surface of his mask on the inside of the other as he continued to bring me unimaginable pleasure and unbearable frustration at the same time.

I couldn't stand it. I was in ecstasy, but I was also in hell. My fingers gripped his hair and pulled his head towards mine.

"_Please_." I was past all bargaining, all teasing, all dignity. I wanted one thing, and he had reduced me to begging for it.

He smiled at me, a mischievous little smile, as his beautiful shining eyes gazed into mine.

"Do you want me?"

"No," was my throaty reply.

He looked a bit shocked at my answer.

"I passed _want_ ten minutes ago," I whispered. "I _need_ you."

He took pity on me I think, for he finally relented and lowered his body onto mine. My legs wrapped around his torso and I locked my ankles together, trapping him so he couldn't reconsider.

I was so hungry for him I shifted my body to meet his. And then, I finally felt what I had been begging for - the full length of him, buried deep inside me. He filled me so completely, stretching me to my limit, and I let out a cry of passion unlike any I had ever uttered.

We fit together so perfectly.

He was so very thorough. He moved his hips up and down, side to side, never taking his eyes off my face. He wanted to see what he was doing to me. I couldn't control my own actions; my body had taken over my mind. Every nerve ending in my body was on fire and I was hypersensitive to his every touch. I could even feel his rock-hard cock growing ever larger inside me.

"Ohhh, Chrisssstinnnne...," he moaned in my ear, sending delicious waves of shivers down my spine.

He possessed me completely. I couldn't speak, breathe, or move. The room was growing fuzzy around us and I could feel myself beginning to black out when his lips again were on mine, breathing more life into me.

His thrusts became faster and more insistent. He grunted with every thrust, matching my higher-pitched moans, and we reached completion together, screaming in celebration of the release. A few more thrusts and he released the last of his seed, but I was unable to respond. I was spent.

Erik leaned down and kissed me, a long, lingering kiss, then he dropped his head down to my shoulder. We lay there, still joined and wet with sweat, unable to move. It took a long while for our breathing to calm.

My legs finally released their death-grip around Erik. Erik slid down the length of my body, forcing his withdrawal from me. I had never felt such emptiness as I did in that moment, and I whimpered in protest. He laid the masked side of his face on my stomach as he shushed me and fondled one of my sweat-covered breasts. I caressed his back with one hand and stroked his hair with my other. We didn't speak, we didn't move. I don't think either of us was capable of doing so.

_oo00**00oo_

Time passed, and it was dark outside. The only light we had in the room was from a small work light near Erik's easel. We drifted in and out of sleep.

I awoke a bit later. Erik had rolled away from me and was fast asleep, lying on his back. I watched his chest rise and fall with every breath. I kneeled next to him and laid a hand on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat. In myself I felt that familiar ache in my loins: I wanted him again.

In one swift motion, I was astride him, leaning over his body and bringing my face down to meet his. I felt my breasts sweep against his chest. I gently placed a kiss on the unmasked side of his forehead, then his nose, then his mouth. Erik awoke with a start.

"Shhh. Relax," I whispered to him with urgency in my voice and fire in my eyes. "I'm not through with you just yet."


	7. Chapter 6, The Morning After

**A Thousand Words**

**Chapter 6**

**The Morning After**

I was awakened by the shrill wail of a siren outside as a police car sped by, and as I awoke I became aware of the sweet sensation of soft fingertips caressing my flesh. Erik was lying next to me on his side, his head propped up in one hand, while his other hand slowly traced a meandering path across my body. He smiled sweetly as he gazed into my half-opened eyes.

"Good morning," he said softly.

As my eyes slowly adjusted to the bright morning light, I saw the man who had reduced me to a quivering mass the night before. He was a sight: his normally tidy hair was sticking out every which way, and he desperately needed a shave. But his warm gray-green eyes glowed as he watched me, and I didn't give a damn how he looked.

My thoughts immediately returned to the night before, to the ceaseless pleasure and seemingly countless releases I had experienced at this man's hands. Had I ever been so fully satisfied before? I couldn't remember, but I seriously doubted it. No man had ever brought me to the brink of agony and then to the pinnacle of ecstasy as he had. We joined together again and again during the night, and each time was more intense, more fulfilling than the last. We finally slept from pure exhaustion, cocooned together in the blanket which had previously served as our picnic table.

Erik continued his caresses. I stretched lazily, languidly, enjoying the sensations he brought forth with his light touch.

"How did you get this?" he asked, referring to the scar on my abdomen. My face must have registered some sort of anguish, for he added, "if you want to talk about it."

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time," I answered softly. "I was shot."

"My God, where were you?"

"At work." I turned away from him, indicating that I didn't want to talk about it any more.

I felt his hand on my shoulder, pulling me back towards him.

"It's all right, you don't have to talk about it. But it's nothing to hide. Really. It's just a little scar, that's all. Nothing more." And to prove it, he bent down and gently kissed the angry red mark that had caused me so much turmoil in the previous weeks. I almost believed his words. But it would always be more than just a little scar to me.

I wondered again about Erik's mask and what lay under it. Surely he didn't wear it as a fashion statement; he must be hiding some sort of deformity or scars of his own. It had to be pretty bad for him to feel the need to wear that mask. My little scar must be small potatoes indeed compared to whatever he was hiding. I decided, however, that I would let him bring up the subject in his own time. I would not push.

Because I felt so comfortable, so safe, in Erik's studio, the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was leave. But I simply had to. I needed some time alone to properly digest all that had happened in the past 24 hours, so I got up off the floor and began getting dressed.

"Stay with me." His tone was somewhat commanding, but I could detect a hint of pleading underneath.

"I have to get home. I have to feed my cat," I said.

As I pulled on my jeans, he rose off the floor and began clearing up the mess we made during the night: warm, gooey cheese and crushed crackers lay strewn about, and the wine bottle lay empty off to one side along with our glasses. He was about to take the remnants of our midnight feast to the kitchen when a wine glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

"Damnation!" he muttered, and he bent to pick up the shards of broken glass. I went to help him, and as he glanced up at me a sharp sliver cut into the palm of his hand. I quickly steered Erik over to the sink in the kitchen and ran his bleeding hand under the faucet to clean the wound, then I inspected the damage.

"It's not too deep; I think you'll live. Do you have any bandages?"

"I think there may be some in the bathroom..."

"All right. Stay here and I'll check." I put his hand back under the running water and went into the bathroom. I returned a few moments later with two tiny Band-Aids; they were all I could find. I carefully dried off the cut and applied the two bandages.

"You really should have more first-aid supplies in here than just a few Band-Aids, you know," I said. "Accidents do happen."

"What are you, a nurse?" he asked jokingly.

"No. A doctor."

He stared at me, dumbfounded, for several long seconds. I knew what he was thinking; the same questions had been racing through my mind since I first picked up the phone to answer his ad. But right now I really wasn't in the mood to justify my actions to him, or to myself, so I quickly finished getting dressed and prepared to leave. But before I could open the door, he stopped me.

"Answer one question," he said to me.

I turned to him.

"Will you come back?"

I could tell by his expression that he wasn't asking as an artist, he was asking as a lover. How could I resist those eyes, especially when I had experienced first hand the passion that lay behind them?

I went back to where he sat on the kitchen stool and planted a long, slow, deep kiss on his lips. Then I turned back around to the door.

"I'll be back," I said over my shoulder before closing the door behind me.

_oo00**00oo_

In the sunny but frigid morning, I trudged through the new-fallen snow. I needed time to clear my head, and a good long walk seemed the perfect opportunity. How could I put into words the reasons for my actions? Was it because I had been so near death that I no longer had any fear? Or was I trying too hard to convince myself that nothing had changed? Something made me answer that mysterious ad in the paper; something made me want to strip myself naked in front of a total stranger. I would never even have thought of doing such a thing before.

My mind wandered back to that fateful day:

I was in the emergency room, valiantly trying to save the life of a teenager who had been shot in the chest. No one in the room noticed that his assailant had come in to finish off the job until he pushed me away from the table. I yelled for security, and I tried to reason with him to not make things worse. I thought I had gotten through to him when the security guards arrived and grabbed him, but he still managed to fire off two shots: one killed the boy lying on the table, and one went into me. I vaguely remember falling backwards, and then everything went black.

I awoke the next day in a hospital bed, recovering from surgery to repair the damage that had been done to my body by the bullet and from the concussion I received in the fall. Recuperation in the hospital and at home was a slow process, and while I was away from my job the hospital administrators decided that I needed additional time off - they were worried about post-traumatic stress and didn't want to lose their top trauma specialist - and put me on leave of absence. I didn't argue with them. I wasn't in any particular hurry to return.

The cold air was invigorating. Before I knew it, I had turned the corner to my block - had I walked all that distance from Erik's studio? - and approached my building. I said hello to the doorman and waited for the elevator.

Spot meowed urgently at me when I opened the door. He was more than a little miffed at having been left alone all night, and without food! I immediately fed him (the good stuff, the canned food with meaty gravy), and suddenly all was forgiven.

My answering machine also was a little miffed: it showed 12 messages. I pressed the play button. "Chris, I thought we'd go out for dinner tonight, what do you say? Call me." It was Randy. Beep. "Chrissy, are you there? Are you OK?" Beep. "I hope you haven't run off to Tahiti without me, where are you?" Beep. Click. Beep. Click. Beep. The rest of the messages were hang-ups, and I knew it was Randy. He must have called all night._ I really should call him, let him know I'm OK. But not right now. _I needed a shower.

The hot water felt so good. I stood in the tub and let the water pelt against me, soothing my aching muscles - I didn't do myself any favors by sleeping on the cold, hard floor. Whoever invented the Shower Massage should get a medal.

I fixed myself a sandwich after I was dried and dressed, realizing that I hadn't eaten much of anything since the previous morning. As I sat at the kitchen table, absently feeding Spot bits of turkey from my sandwich, my mind wandered back to Erik. I couldn't wait to go back.


	8. Ch 7, An Artist's Work Is Never Done

_AN #1: I have debated for a long time about this chapter, about whether or not to include it. I even toned it down (a lot) from its original version. But it is fun, so I decided to go ahead and just... do it.  
__AN #2: I haven't said this for a few chapters, so here goes: Don't own, just borrowing, please don't sue, etc., etc., etc.  
__AN #3: I tried a different approach here, writing in the present tense. Thought it might be fun to "peek in" on events as they arise... err... unfold...  
__AN #4: Suffice it to say that this chapter is mature in content. Young'uns, go read something else!_

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 7  
****An Artist's Work Is Never Done**

The buzzer for Apartment 4B doesn't have a name. I notice this as I press it, and I think to myself that I really should ask him about that. _Oh yes, now that I've slept with you and all, I really do think I should know your last name? _Erik doesn't answer the call, he just buzzes me in.

Inside the inner door of the building, a row of mailboxes lines one wall. I look there as well: just 4B, no name. There are others with names, N. Starks-4A, R. Vargas-3B, K. Johnson-2A, but no name graces the mailbox of 4B. Strange.

Upstairs, the door of Erik's studio stands open. He looks up as I enter and smiles, his grin lighting up the visible half of his face. I make sure the door is closed securely behind me–I certainly don't want anyone waltzing in while I'm lying naked on the sofa!

I have been worrying about the cut on his hand, so I stopped at the Duane Reade on my way over to pick up a few things: antibacterial ointment, gauze, adhesive tape. I examine his wound, then clean and re-bandage his hand. We wouldn't want it to get infected, now would we? He winces and carries on as if I was performing major surgery without anesthesia. Men always act like babies with the tiniest of injuries! I smile inwardly as I apply the final strip of tape, protecting the wound from his paints and solvents.

Erik no longer pretends to look away as I prepare for the day's sitting. I remove my boots, my jeans, my sweater; his eyes are watching me the entire time. He doesn't make me feel uncomfortable, far from it: I actually want to put everything back on so I can take it all off again!

But we have work to do.

Soon I am back on the sofa, in my now-familiar pose, feeling sexy and oh-so-decadent. By now I know exactly where to place my arm, how much to bend my knee, how far to turn my head. It's all second nature to me. Erik glances at me, then at the canvas in front of him, satisfied that I'm in the correct position, and he begins to paint.

I find it very hard to keep still, to maintain my pose for him. I squirm a bit, but it's not from discomfort. I just can't keep still in Erik's presence.

I notice that his gaze at me is different now; no longer is it clinically observing, now it is hungry and lustful. I feel his desire as strongly as my own. Then there's that tightening in the pit of my stomach. Now I can no longer contain my desire; I crook my index finger in a "come here" gesture, and he immediately rushes to me. We share a hungry kiss, a deep kiss; he smothers me as I sink further into the pillows beneath me; I can't breathe. All I can think is that his clothes have to come off, I have to feel his body against mine.

Can he read my mind? He sits back and removes his shirt, exposing his smooth chest, then he struggles to remove his trousers, never taking his eyes off me. I reach out to him, to touch him and taste him... but in an instant I find myself flung over onto my stomach. Oh, the shivers that run up and down my spine as he places gentle kisses between my shoulder blades, down my back. What is that, is he _biting_ me? A handful of my ass in his hand and he grazes his teeth over it. I love it; I am trembling with desire. _Where are your lips, I want your lips_, but my hands are pinned under me and I cannot move under his weight. I writhe in anticipation of what will come next.

Darkness. Smooth, silky blackness.

It's the sash from the kimono; he's winding it around my head, covering my eyes. It feels so smooth, so soft, so cool. Around and around, then a gentle tug as he ties it securely.

He lifts me off of the sofa and takes both my hands as he leads me–_Where are we going? _Shhh, don't ask questions. He guides me down to the floor onto something soft, a blanket or quilt, and lays me down. _I want to see you_. I feel his hand over the blindfold; he wants me to keep it on. His warm, soft hands, their gentle touch, caressing my eyes through the satin, moving from my face to my throat to my breasts. Lingering there, circling the nipples, toying with them. I writhe under his touch. A pinch, a twist. Hands going down my stomach to my navel, down, farther down to my–no, instead, down my leg, caressing the skin of my thigh, my knee, my ankle, my foot. I twitch, my feet are ticklish! My leg is raised into the air, he glides skillful fingers along my calf, to the sensitive crease behind my knee, continuing along the back of my thigh, _yes, oh yes, keep going_. But he stops. He gently places my leg back on the floor. _Where are you going? _I hear him moving away. _No, don't leave_.

What is that touching me? A feather, drawn between my breasts? Its firm tip barely touches my skin. No, not a feather, it's too stiff. Yes, that's it, it's a dry paintbrush teasing my naked flesh. _Erik, oh Erik. _Up my throat, tickling my earlobe, stealing its way over my face. Moaning; is that me or him? His lips on mine, hungry, wet, insistent. Tongues meeting, dancing, curling around one another. Brushstrokes down my arm; I can almost see my nerve endings flutter at every touch. Long, slow strokes on my belly–up, down, up, down–hypnotizing. Lips grazing my nipples, tongue rolling around them. I can't catch my breath. Strokes on my stomach are different now, broader; another brush? Bigger? Yes. Wide, with soft bristles. I can feel each bristle as the brush glides on my skin. It feels so good!

Then it disappears. _No, where are your lips? Where are you? _

Hands caress my legs, bending my knees, parting my thighs. Cool air against the wetness already there, oh, it feels so good! Not the brush! Long, slow strokes, barely touching the skin. Fingers firmly holding my leg. Strokes, merciless strokes. _Take pity on me! _But no. Strokes harder, faster, circling, searching... I can't contain myself. Colors exploding inside my head like fireworks on the Fourth of July! Never felt this before, climaxing blind. Tiny convulsions keep coming. My hips don't stop moving; I can't stop them._ Ohhhh, Erik, where are you? Let me see you! _Faint scratching from his beard stubble on the inside of my thighs._ Oh yes, yes, kiss me there... _One long, slow, languorous lick, following the path of the brush, so deliberate, so lovely. Then he's gone. _No! Why do you stop?_

I'm panting, got to catch my breath. Reaching for him, finding only air. _Where are you? _Oh yes, his delicious lips on mine. His familiar taste mixed with mine. I can feel the contrast between his warm, stubbly cheek on one side of my face and the cool, smooth surface of his mask on the other. Its lower edge even bites into my top lip as the kiss continues, but I am past caring about that.

His hand caresses the satin sash over my eyes; what has this man done to me?

What is that dripping on my breast; cold, wet? Then the brush again. Oh, dear God, he's painting me! How can I endure this? I tense at each cool drop that touches my hot skin and slowly spreads. But these are not oil paints; no, too smooth, too thin for that. I feel the paint running, coating my breast. Then the other one. Dripping like syrup, thick and slow. Sharp pricks all over my breasts, they feel like tiny stings. He's painting polka dots! Around and around my nipples then, swirling, occasionally flicking the hard nubs. Can I take any more of this? What next? Oh, there, yes, the bigger brush stroking my stomach again, then the smaller one; he must be painting stripes!

_Where are you? _I search with my hands, there he is. Firm muscled flesh covered with soft hairs–his thigh–he's kneeling beside me. I creep over his thigh, searching, seeking... _ah, there you are! _Can't quite reach, squirm a little for better position, there, now I have you in my grasp! Oh, so beautiful, even though I can't see, so long and hot and hard. I caress the silky skin, silky yet hard underneath, then take hold tightly.

Yes, now he's moaning; good. Not just me who's getting pleasure.

I struggle to my knees and turn towards him. I'm bending over to take him in my mouth, but he takes my head in his hands and brings it up to meet his. His lips cover mine, all but demanding my surrender to him. I readily comply. Both on our knees, our bodies meet–thigh to thigh, belly to belly–and we slip and slide through the wet paint. His tongue demands entrance and I invite him in, breathing a soft moan as both our tongues engage in the eternal mating ritual that has been around since the days of Adam and Eve.

He sits back and guides my legs around him, astride him, and I feel his hardness rubbing against me. He is there, ready, waiting to plunge in. Oh, the fullness, the warmth! Sliding in fully, stretching me to my fullest. I lose my grip of him; my hands are slippery with paint. He puts one arm around me to keep me close, while the other creeps down below, rubbing against me, bringing me to the brink of another orgasm.

Being temporarily blinded, I put my hands on either side of Erik's face as a way of "seeing" him. My left hand meets with the cold, hard surface of his mask. In an instant he freezes, then claps his hand roughly over mine. Don't. His voice is hard, threatening. He thinks I meant to take off his mask._ I wasn't going to, I just wanted to feel you. _Just don't. _I'm so sorry. _I pull my hand away. Burying my head in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, I gently caress his arms. _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..._

Erik sighs. He takes hold of one of my hands and kisses the tip of each finger, then places a kiss on the palm. I raise my head and he captures my lips in a sweet, soft kiss that soon ignites into a passionate, raging fire. One thrust of his hips reminds me that he is still firmly embedded inside me, and he is still incredibly hard. I wriggle against him and he moans against my mouth. It doesn't take long for us to resume our previous rhythm.

We move magically together; every thrust faster and deeper. In darkness–just feeling him–deeper and deeper–faster and faster–_I'm going to come, I'm going to come_... My muscles contract around him, holding him tightly inside me. Moaning in my ear. One more thrust, and he's spent as well.

I feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, I smell his delicious scent, I taste the saltiness of his sweat, I hear his labored breathing. I just cannot see him. I caress him, his hair, the back of his neck.

Hot tears soak the satin band around my head; I reach to caress his face–the good side of his face–to find wetness there as well. I can't let go; I hold on to him. He loosens the blindfold and pulls the satin sash from my eyes. I can't look at him. I keep my eyes closed.

My breathing–did I breathe at all during this?–returns to normal. I finally summon up the strength to gaze into the depths of his hypnotizing green eyes. No words. No sounds. Now that I can see, my other senses have ceased to function.

I cast a tentative glance around us. What a mess we've made! Paint all over–on our bodies, on the blanket, on the floor, splattered everywhere! Paints of all different hues mixed and mingled together to create colors that never existed before.

I look at Erik with streaks of paint on his face, in his hair, on his normally pristine white mask, smeared over his body–I must look even worse! My skin tightens as the paint begins to dry. I giggle as I manage to stand, reaching for his hand; I lead him to the bathroom for a long, hot shower...

XXXXX

When I emerge from the bathroom after drying my hair, wearing my jeans and sweater, I see Erik stretched out lazily on the sofa. He is dressed simply, also in jeans and a sweater, with socks but no shoes on his feet. To me, he looks wonderful. Music plays softly from a small radio. Erik glances up at me as I draw nearer to him and he gestures to the coffee table: an array of Chinese takeout containers covers the tabletop. There also is a bottle of wine, already opened, and two glasses. Again, it is a rather expensive wine.

"I didn't know what you'd like, so I ordered a little bit of everything."

"How did you get it here so fast...?"

"I have my ways," he tells me with a sly smile.

"It smells wonderful; I didn't realize it but I'm really hungry."

He pats the sofa cushion next to him. "Come."

I sit, and he opens one of the containers of food.

"Mmmmm, cashew chicken? My favorite."

He smiles, picking up a pair of chopsticks and digging into the container. He brings a piece of succulent, juicy chicken to my lips and feeds it to me. Then he takes a piece for himself. He continues to feed us both–chicken, shrimp, beef, vegetables, eggrolls, a little bit of everything available to us on the table–in between sips of wine.

When we are finished eating, he lays back against the sofa cushions and pulls me to him. We relax together, arms around each other, just enjoying the moment.

"Do you have plans for Saturday night?" he asks.

"No, I don't think so. Why?"

"A friend of mine is showing a few pieces at a gallery opening, and he's invited me. Would you like to come?"

"Sure, I'd love to. I've never been to a real gallery before."

"I'm not much for going to these things myself, but I would be honored have you as my date."

He leans over for a long, slow, sweet kiss.

We sit together in silence for a few moments.

I open my mouth to say something, but not knowing how to form my thoughts into words, I stop.

"What is it?" he asks me. He has the unmistakable look of trepidation in his eyes; he must be expecting "the mask" conversation.

"Well, I... I won't be able to pose for you much longer."

He breathes out, but not in relief. Does he think I'll stop coming because of the incident with his mask?

"Why is that?" as asks carefully. "Is it because of... what happened earlier?"

"No, of course not! Erik, I'm so sorry about that. Really. Truly sorry."

He looks down at me and smiles a little smile. "I know. And I am sorry I reacted as I did."

"There's no need to apologize to me," I reply.

"So, tell me why you cannot be my model and muse any longer," Erik murmurs as he tightens his arms around me.

"I've told the hospital I'm ready to go back to work."

"Back to work? Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yes, I think so. If I don't go back soon, I'm afraid I never will."

"I think that's tremendous, if you're truly ready," he says, looking me square in the eyes. "And I've almost finished the painting, so I won't be needing you. For posing, I mean."

I glance up at him. He is smiling that devilish grin that I've come to recognize in the short time I've known him.

"But I would like to continue seeing you–in another capacity."


	9. Chapter 8, Gallery Opening

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 8  
****Gallery Opening**

Saturday night snuck up on me. I had started back to work on Friday and, after two grueling days in the ER, I was exhausted. Why did I ever think I could "ease back" into working in the ER? And why, oh why, did I ever agree to start back to work on the weekend? Weekends always are the busiest days–auto accidents, fights, drive-bys, you name it. Everything's always worse on the weekends.

I hurried home after my shift ended to clean up and change clothes so I could meet Erik at the gallery. I wanted to look nice for him, so I pulled out a little bright blue dress from my closet that I had only worn once before. It was clingy, with a low neckline, a high flared hemline, and fitted long sleeves. I slipped it over my head and examined myself in the mirror. Not too shabby. Blue always did look good on me. The dress needed high heels, but I hated wearing them. Besides, it had been snowing again and the streets were wet and slushy. I chose a pair of mid-heel pumps instead.

Once outside, it took quite a long time for me to flag down a cab. Why do they all go into hiding when the weather gets bad?

On the way downtown to the gallery, my thoughts turned to Erik. I was a little nervous about seeing him outside his studio and about meeting his friends, but I was downright giddy at the prospect of being with him again. I hadn't seen him for three days.

I knew I was late; we had agreed to meet at 7 p.m. and it was nearing 7:30 when I finally stepped inside the gallery. It was huge, consisting of several interconnected rooms, but because it was crammed with so many people the air was stifling, especially compared with the crisp, cold winter air outside. I took off my coat and handed it over to the coat-check girl while I scanned the room for Erik, taking a glass of champagne from one of the roving waiters.

Then I saw him.

And my heart skipped a beat.

He was impeccably dressed, in a black suit that looked like it had been tailor-made for him and a charcoal grey sweater underneath. His hair was combed straight back from his face and fell right to the edge of his turtleneck collar. He stood with the right side of his face turned away from me so that I couldn't see his mask. The sight of him quite literally took my breath away. The only word I could think of to describe him was dazzling.

He stood along the back wall of the main room talking with a group of several people, most of them women, looking very much at ease. I must admit that the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head at the sight of him with those women–until he looked up and his eyes caught mine. A long, slow smile spread across his face. He quickly excused himself from the group and made his way to me.

"You look beautiful!" he said as he approached. "I was worried you wouldn't be able to make it." He leaned down and gave me a quick kiss.

"So do you," I replied, indicating his suit. He brushed off my compliment with a short wave of his hand.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," I said. "I couldn't find a cab."

"Don't worry about it," he replied with a genuine smile. "I'm just glad that you're here now. Come, I want you to meet some people." With that, he took my hand and led me through the crowd.

He approached a very tall, very thin dark-haired woman dressed from head to toe in black. She was facing away from us. "Cynthia! Hello!" he said to her.

The woman turned around, and they clasped hands and exchanged air kisses.

"I'd like you to meet my friend Christine. This is Cynthia de Lyonne, she owns the gallery."

Cynthia's pale, angular features made her very striking, and that, combined with her severe haircut, blood-red lipstick and somber clothes, could have led one to mistake her for a sculpture in her own gallery. The warm smile she gave to Erik, however, quickly dissipated when her gaze fell to me.

"Hello, good to meet you," I said, holding out my hand.

Cynthia eyed me up and down. Without smiling she took my hand and shook it limply. "Likewise," she said in a clipped, nasal British accent, although the expression on her face belied the sentiment. She immediately turned her attention back to Erik, taking hold of his arm and turning away from me. "Erik darling, I didn't know you'd be bringing a _date_ tonight," she said to him.

This woman was starting to get on my nerves, especially the way she so blatantly tried to steer Erik away from me. She was a friend of his, though, and could possibly help his career, so I held my temper in check and tried to join in the conversation.

I said the first thing that popped into my head. "This is quite an impressive collection," I offered, hoping I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. To be honest, I had no idea if it was impressive or not.

She turned back to me. "Thank you." Her response was so cold I felt goosebumps.

I really, _really_ wanted to haul off and punch her lights out. But, being a lady, I summoned up all my self-restraint and merely smiled at her. Through gritted teeth.

"Well, if you'll excuse us," Erik said, "we should mingle a bit." He took my hand and led me away. I could still feel Cynthia glaring at me as we left. Bitch.

In the main room of the gallery, the paintings were all by the same artist. They were abstract, and to my untrained eye they just looked like random streaks and splatters of paint. The predominant color was red–violent streaks of red that resembled huge, gaping wounds.

I felt a tightening in my chest; I imagined that the walls were beginning to close in on me. It became harder and harder for me to breathe in this room, and I wasn't sure if it was from the crush of people or from the vibe I got from the art hanging on the walls. My grip on Erik's hand must have tightened because he leaned over and asked, "What's the matter?"

I couldn't say anything, but I led him into the next room where the artwork was calmer and the colors cooler. I took a deep breath.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, but those paintings–all that _red_–I just couldn't look at them any longer."

He looked at me blankly for a moment, then the "ah-ha" of recognition crept in. He realized that it hit too close to home–or rather, to work.

"Oh. I didn't realize," he said. "Do you want to leave?"

"No, I only just got here. Let's look around some more."

So we wandered through the many rooms, examining the artwork, sipping champagne, mingling. Erik introduced me to several friends and fellow artists. The men were all friendly enough, but the women reacted to my presence in pretty much the same way Cynthia had: as if I was Patient Zero and I carried the Bubonic Plague.

When we reached a relatively quiet corner, I asked him, "Is there something wrong with how I look?"

"Pardon?"

"I've been getting the 'evil eye' all evening. First from that Cynthia woman and then from practically every other woman we've talked to. I just wondered if it was the dress."

He gave me an appraising look. A very long appraising look.

"No, you look fine. Sensational, in fact. I think they're just surprised to see me with someone. I usually come to these things alone. When I come at all, that is."

"Oh," I said, not sure whether or not I believed him. Why would a man like Erik, a handsome, intelligent, incredibly sexy man, go to social functions alone? Even before I arrived, he was engaged in conversation with a group of people, most of whom were women, and it seemed to me that those women were _very_ attentive toward him.

I decided to let the matter drop and turned my attention to the painting hanging in front of us. It was an abstract. I couldn't for the life of me understand why the artist had titled it "Smile," because I could see no faces. I frowned.

Erik watched me study the painting. "This really isn't your cup of tea, is it?"

"Well... not really," I admitted. "I prefer more classical types of art. Give me a Monet or a Renoir any day."

He pursed his lips and nodded.

"But that's not to say I don't _like_ this, it's just... _different_."

He leaned in very close to me and whispered in my ear, "I've missed you."

I felt his hot breath on my skin, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I looked up at him and said, "So have I."

His hand snaked around to the small of my back. I shivered at his touch.

"Come on, let's get out of here." He ushered me towards the front door.

"Your place or mine?" I asked with a grin.

"The studio's closer..."

"Okay, let's go."

We were nearly at the entrance when I heard someone call out, "Chrissy!" I stopped and turned around to see Randy coming toward us.

"Chris, I've been so worried about you! Why haven't you returned my calls?"

Talk about uncomfortable situations! I couldn't admit to him that I'd completely forgotten about all his telephone messages from the past week. I had had my mind on... other things. And now I was stunned to see him here, in an art gallery, of all places. Being an all-business type, he always claimed "artsy" people were such phonies.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Randy, I've been really busy. I didn't tell you that I went back to work this week, did I?"

"No. No, you didn't."

He glanced at Erik. I finally remembered my manners and made the introductions. "Randy, this is Erik. Erik, this is Randy, a good friend of mine." They nodded at each other. "Um, we were just on our way out. I'll call you later?"

"Okay." Randy eyed Erik once more before giving me a quick peck on the cheek. "Bye."

"Goodbye. I'll talk to you." I hugged him goodbye, then I took Erik's hand and led him to the coatcheck desk.

Erik's studio was indeed closer; it was within walking distance. We didn't waste time trying to find a cab and started out on foot, trying our best to avoid the deeper slush puddles on the sidewalk. We were forced to stop at a crosswalk as several cars made their way through the intersection, and Erik pulled me close to him and kissed me right there on the streetcorner as we waited for the light to turn. Neither of us could wait to get back to his place.

We finally arrived at his building and were making a beeline upstairs when we encountered a couple on their way out for the evening. The man was tall, with dark hair and a mustache, and the woman was a very petite blonde.

"Erik! Where have you been hiding? I haven't seen you for days!"

"Hi, Nathan. Suzette."

"Hello, Erik," the woman said as she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she held her hand out to me. "Hi. I'm Suzette. This is Nathan."

"Hi. Nice to meet you," I said, shaking her hand, then Nathan's as he offered it as well.

"Oh, sorry, this is Christine," Erik said.

"Well, we're just going over to that new Italian place on Fifth, would you two like to join us?" Nathan asked.

"Thanks, but we just ate," Erik replied, lying through his teeth. I squeezed his hand, silently telling him I wanted to go upstairs.

"Your loss," Nathan said as he shrugged. "See ya later!" He and Suzette started down the stairs. "Nice to meet you!" he called back to me.

"Same here," I said.

As we climbed the steps to the fourth floor, I asked Erik, "Wasn't that Suzette Simmons, the Broadway star?"

"Yes. He... she... well, it's a very long story," he said, obviously not wanting to tell it right then. "Come on."

I couldn't wait for him to open the door. I unbuttoned his overcoat and had it half off by the time he managed to unlock the door and get it open. Once inside, he backed me up against the wall and started smothering me with kisses. He slid his hands under my coat and around my waist, pulling me closer to him. As I struggled to get my coat off, I inadvertently hit the light switch with my arm.

As light filled the room, I noticed something very wrong.

The easel was empty.

My painting was gone.

"Wait..." I said, trying to focus his attention away from me for a moment. "The painting. Where is it?"

"Oh, I finished it," he said offhandedly. "It's gone." He went back to assaulting my neck with kisses.

"Gone?" I could hardly believe it. "Gone where?"

"Just gone." He attacked my neck again.

I pushed him away from me.

"But I didn't even get to see it." I was crestfallen. "You promised I'd be able to see it when you were finished."

My head was reeling. That painting of me, nude, was hanging in some stranger's house? Maybe even in their bedroom? I never considered that, where it would wind up. I just assumed Erik would keep it, or I would buy it from him, but he had sold it to a complete stranger?

How could he do that?

I stalked away from him to the other side of the room. "I can't believe you did that!"

He followed me. "Why? It was my painting. I did what I thought was best."

"Selling it to a stranger? _That's_ what's best?" I was furious.

"I didn't sell it."

"Oh. You _gave_ it away. That makes it better." I turned away from him. I couldn't look at him, not after he betrayed me in such a horrible way.

"Christine. Chris_-tine_, look at me." I didn't move, so he turned me around to face him. "I didn't know you'd react this way. I'm sorry."

"I didn't even get to see it," I pouted.

He looked at me, searching my face, for a long moment.

"Would you like to?"

"What?"

"If you really want to see it, I can take you there..."

"You know where it is?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Come with me." He re-buttoned his coat and helped me back into mine.

Back out on the street, Erik hailed a cab. We both crawled into the back seat, and he leaned forward to give the driver our destination. I couldn't hear the address, but as Erik settled in beside me the taxi headed uptown.

I was filled with such a mixture of excitement and dread that I could hardly sit still...


	10. Chapter 9, The Portrait

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 9  
****The Portrait**

"_If you really want to see it, I can take you there..."_

The cab stopped at a luxury apartment building on Fifth Avenue in the East 80s. Erik hadn't said a word during the trip, and neither had I. I was much too nervous to say anything. I also was much too busy trying to keep myself from flying off the seat as the cabbie swerved in and out of the uptown traffic.

Erik helped me out of the cab and held my arm as we negotiated the piles of snow and puddles of slush on the sidewalk. As he escorted me into the building lobby, the doorman smiled and nodded. "Good evening, Mr. B. Nice to see you again."

"Thank you, Ronnie. Good evening to you."

How did the doorman know him? Did he come here often? I looked inquiringly at Erik, but he just smiled at me. Towards the back of the lobby, the elevator doors stood open as if waiting just for us. We stepped in and Erik pushed the button marked "PH."

"We're going to the penthouse?" I asked.

"Yes." He offered no more by way of explanation.

A bell sounded off each floor as we ascended to the top of the building in the tiny elevator car. When the doors finally slid open, we stepped out into a large foyer. There were two doors, a set of double doors directly opposite the elevator and a smaller, single door on the far right wall. He took my hand and led me to the double doors in front of us. He punched in a security number on a small keypad, and I heard a click as the door automatically unlocked. And to think I still used a key to get in my apartment! How very old-fashioned of me!

Erik opened the door and stood back to allow me to enter.

I could hardly believe what I saw as I entered the living room: this single room was larger by far than my entire apartment! The far wall consisted solely of glass, broken only by a set of glass French doors that opened out onto a terrace, and this transparent wall afforded a spectacular view of the city. The kitchen and dining room were off to the right, and to the left was a foyer containing a spiral staircase that led upstairs and a hallway that led to what I guessed was a library or office–I could see a wall of shelves in the room that was filled with books.

But this room–it looked like one of those places you see pictured in _Architectural Digest_. A huge stone fireplace dominated one wall, and a cozy grouping of furniture surrounded it. A sleek black grand piano stood in another corner. An enormous and ornate Oriental rug lay at my feet. The furnishings were a combination of antiques and modern pieces, and it worked well; it was a combination I'd never have the courage to try myself. Even if I had the money.

Erik had taken off his overcoat and threw it over a chair. He helped me out of mine.

"We shouldn't be here, what if the owner comes home?"

"The owner won't mind. Come, look at this." He took my hand and led me to the French doors. We stepped out onto the huge stone terrace and looked upon a truly breathtaking view: the vast expanse of Central Park was laid out before us in the night like a lush black carpet strewn with glittering gems. Just a few blocks south of us, the hulking mass of the Metropolitan Museum of Art stood bathed in floodlights. And on the opposite side of the park, the colossal apartment buildings of Central Park West rose up out of the darkness and glistened in the cold winter night. We were up so high that the street noises down below us were barely discernible. It was so quiet and peaceful up here.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he whispered in my ear. He was standing behind me, with his arms around my waist, looking over my shoulder. I leaned back against him. A few flakes of snow fell from the night sky.

"Oh, yes." I shivered from the cold.

"Let's go back inside. You must be freezing."

As I re-entered the living room, I saw a large painting on the far wall, near the front entrance, that I hadn't noticed before. It looked very familiar, very French Impressionist. The muted colors, the soft brush strokes, the slightly blurred overall effect... As I walked across the room to get a closer look, I smiled thinking that it probably was another of Erik's paintings, done in the French Impressionist style. Boy, would I look like a fool! I moved in closer to see the signature, and I think my jaw actually dropped all the way to the floor.

"Oh, my God! Monet? This is an actual Monet?" I turned back to look at him, pointing stupidly back at what could only be termed a masterpiece. He nodded. I was dumbfounded. I had never been so close to a real work of art. I had seen them in museums, of course; but they always had velvet ropes around them and security guards stationed nearby to keep you from getting too close. But here I was, face to face as it were, with a real Monet... hanging in someone's house! I was afraid to breathe on it.

I still had so many questions I wanted to ask, but before I could gather my thoughts, Erik held out his hand to me and nodded towards the hallway. I reluctantly followed him as he started up the spiral staircase. I just wanted to stay and look some more at the Monet, forgetting our original purpose in breaking in to this apartment.

The upstairs hallway had several doors. Erik went right to another set of double doors and opened them. He entered the room and I followed.

This could only be the master bedroom. It was enormous. The entire room was decorated in black and varying shades of blue; it had a decidedly masculine feel. Like the living room, it had a wall of windows which offered the same spectacular view, and the drapes were open so we could feast our eyes again on the dazzling Manhattan skyline.

"Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful. But I still don't know what..." Erik cut me off in mid-sentence by inclining his head towards the wall behind me. He had that enigmatic little smile on his face again. I turned to see what he was so pleased about, and I gasped.

There it was: my painting, hanging on the brick wall above the fireplace.

It was stunning. In the portrait, I was lying not on the shabby sofa in Erik's studio but on a shimmering damask chaise longue, and the background was filled with rich velvet drapes in deep jewel tones trimmed with golden fringe. My dark hair fell in perfect waves about my shoulders. The expression on my face betrayed my feelings for the artist; he had perfectly captured in my eyes and enigmatic Mona Lisa smile the desire I felt within me as I posed for him. It most definitely was me, but I looked so beautiful, more so than I ever imagined I could be.

As if he could read my mind, he whispered in my ear, "I painted you just as I saw you."

He was standing right behind me; his breath tickled the fine hairs on my neck as he spoke.

"It's... it's just beautiful, Erik. I can't believe that's me."

"Oh, but it is. _You_ are beautiful." He kissed the curve of my neck.

"But who..."

"Shh. No more questions." He turned me around to face him, took my face in both of his hands, and kissed me. So warm, so inviting. I stood on tiptoe to meet his lips as his arms crept around me. I melted into them, and suddenly all the questions that filled my head disappeared. All I could think about now was him–the nearness of him, the taste of his lips on mine, the feel of his body pressed against mine, the promise of what was to come.

We stood there, in a close embrace in the middle of the room. His hands slid down the length of my body until he reached the hem of my dress. He grabbed a handful of blue knit fabric in each hand and slowly lifted the skirt up, up, finally pulling the dress up over my head. It fell to the floor somewhere behind me.

I was still terrified that someone would walk in on us.

"No, we can't, not here..."

"Don't worry. No one will bother us, I promise you. We're alone."

He shrugged out of his suit coat, and I lifted his sweater up, exposing his chest. I lowered my head and brought my lips to the smoothness of his stomach. I felt his chest vibrate as he moaned softly; that spurred me on to cover his skin with a trail of wet kisses. I tasted him, breathed in his scent, and consequently I felt the warmth and wetness of my own growing desire. Because I was trembling (maybe it was the fear of being discovered in this place, or maybe it was just pure desire), I fumbled a bit as I tried to undo his belt buckle. He removed his sweater, tugging at it to get it over his head, and tossed it to one side.

Somehow, with all that tugging, he managed to keep his mask in place. His sweater landed on the dresser, jostling a few items on the gleaming surface; a small framed photo skidded off the edge and landed on the thick carpet.

I straightened up and our lips met again, and Erik nudged me a few steps backward until I was sandwiched between him and the brick wall surrounding the fireplace. The familiar pangs of desire grew deep inside me; I wanted him and I wanted him now.

"Tell me what you want," he said in a low tone, almost a growl.

_He must be some kind of mind reader..._

XXXXX

Erik lay asleep beside me on the enormous bed, curled on his side, his leg thrown over me. We must have dozed off after our marathon lovemaking session–first against the fireplace wall, then on the dresser, and finally on the bed. I grinned to myself as I remembered our outrageous antics in this unfamiliar bedroom. Erik was insatiable, taking me again and again, and I could honestly say that I had no complaints!

I was afraid to move for fear of waking him, but I was cold–we were still _on_ the bed, not _in_ it, never having taken the time to pull back the covers and slip under them. I slowly turned, and he shifted in his sleep, moving away from me. I got up and reached for the nearest piece of clothing I could find. It was Erik's sweater. I pulled it over my head, taking in the now-familiar spicy scent that I had come to associate with him. Wearing his sweater gave me a sense of comfort, of safety. It hung halfway to my knees, and the sleeves were so long that I constantly had to push them up.

Near where the sweater had lain on the floor was the framed photograph that fell off the dresser top. I picked it up and was about to replace it when I caught a glimpse of the photo inside. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. It was so shocking to me that I couldn't believe what I saw there; my befuddled brain didn't understand what it meant.

I looked over at Erik, lying naked in the middle of the huge bed. He was now awake and had propped up his head on his hand. He was watching me intently. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words didn't come. I took a long, careful look around the room, ending with the portrait on the wall, and suddenly everything fell into place. I turned back to Erik.

"Oh my God," I whispered, "this is your apartment."

He didn't respond. I looked again at the photo I held in my hands.

"And you have a twin."


	11. Chapter 10, Midnight Snack

**A Thousand Words**

**Chapter 10**

**Midnight Snack**

"_Oh my God," I whispered, "this is your apartment."_

_He didn't respond. I looked again at the photo I held in my hands._

"_And you have a twin."_

XXXXX

Erik sat up, his eyes never leaving me.

"You're half right," he replied. "This is my home. But my brother and I aren't twins, we just look very much alike. Except, of course, for the..." he trailed off, absently gesturing to the masked side of his face.

"But, how... why..." Again, words failed me.

I just stood there staring at him, hopelessly confused. Erik rose from the bed and approached me, then he put his arms around me and guided me back to the bed.

"Come back to bed. It's cold."

When we were both in bed, with the covers pulled up around us, he snuggled up next to me.

"So... you don't live downtown?" I asked.

"At the studio? No. I just work there. Sometimes I sleep there if I'm too tired to come home."

"But you said you..."

"No, I never did. I never said I lived there."

"So why the charade?"

"Think about it: do you think anyone would take me seriously as an artist if they knew I had money, if they knew I lived here?" He gestured around the room for effect. "I would just be some rich man with a hobby, someone to be humoured."

My head was still reeling. This man, this starving artist who wasn't _really_ a starving artist, had deceived me all this time. I wasn't even sure how I felt about it–did I feel betrayed, relieved, angry, happy, sad? I didn't know for sure. But his wealth did answer a lot of questions, including his taste for expensive wines and his tailored suits.

"This way," he continued, "I'm evaluated on my talent and not for how much money I have."

He still had a lot to answer for as far as I was concerned. But right then I had a more pressing need. I was beginning to think we should have joined Nathan and Suzette at that Italian restaurant. "Well, while you tell me the rest of the story, maybe you can get us something to eat? I'm starving."

"Hm. I'm not sure what's in the kitchen, but maybe I can find something for us. Come with me."

XXXXX

Downstairs, Erik guided me to the fireplace and gestured to the array of pillows and cushions strewn about on the floor. He had put on a maroon paisley silk robe, tied loosely at the waist, exposing a broad expanse of his chest. Looking at him made my mouth water.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll be right back." He pushed a button on the wall and roaring flames instantly appeared behind the fireplace screen. Ah, to live the life of the rich.

It struck me then just how different Erik seemed to me tonight. In the studio he was always quiet and introverted, but tonight he was much more relaxed and open, more self-assured. Maybe being in more familiar surroundings loosened him up a bit. Or maybe he felt more comfortable now that I knew the truth about him.

I didn't sit down right away but rather went over to the windows and marveled again at the spectacular view they offered. As I gazed out, the room behind me suddenly went dark. I turned around to see Erik, laden with a large tray, pressing the light switch with his elbow. The only light remaining in the room came from the fireplace.

"You can see it much better without the lights on," he said.

He set the tray down on the coffee table and then joined me at the windows. "It's so different from up here, the city," Erik said to me. "Away from the noise, the crowds, the traffic; it's a completely different place, is it not?"

"Yes, it is," I said. "I just can't get over this view. The only view I have from my apartment is if you lean dangerously far out the living room window and crane your neck to the left, you might catch a glimpse of New Jersey. And that's only on a good day."

He laughed as his arms snaked around me. "So when will I have the pleasure of seeing that?"

"We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?" I answered, raising an eyebrow.

"Come on, let's eat. I'm starving as well."

As we settled on the floor in front of the fire's warm glow, I scanned the offerings on the tray: a bakery box half-filled with pastries, a few slices of leftover pizza, a bowl of fruit salad, a carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and a can of Pringle's potato chips. And, to top it all off, a bottle of very old–and very expensive–wine.

"This is your idea of food?" I asked with a grin.

"Sure. What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, if your four basic food groups are fat, salt, sugar and grease," I replied. "You really should eat better than this. How do you manage to keep your weight down eating this junk?"

"Oh, stop being a doctor," he teased as he poured the wine. "You said you were hungry." Erik unwrapped the pizza, handing me a slice and taking one for himself.

While we ate, Erik told me about himself for the first time: his family back in France, his childhood, the family's fortune, his foray into the business world working in partnership with his brother and his decision to leave the partnership to pursue his one real passion: art.

"How did he take it, your brother, when you left the business?"

He popped a Pringle's into his mouth and munched thoughtfully for a moment. "Oh, not well," he mused. "Not well at all. The entire family thought I was insane–they always had–but especially then, when I announced I was moving to New York to paint. You'd think I had completely disgraced the entire Bolieu family, the way they acted."

"So, that's your family name? Bolieu?"

He smiled and nodded.

"I think they all thought I'd be back within a fortnight, that I'd come to my senses, but I never did. Not even for my brother's wedding."

"That must have gone over well."

Erik raised an eyebrow while thinking back. "Oh, Jacques was fit to be tied."

"I'm sure he was."

"He's very used to having things go his way, you know. Which explains his current foul mood–I understand he's having some sort of marital problems right now."

I took a sip of wine and sat back, taking in all the information I had learned that evening.

"So, am I forgiven?" he asked me after a long pause.

"Forgiven? For what?"

"For not telling you."

I weighed my words carefully before I spoke.

"I can't blame you, not really. I understand why you don't run around telling everyone you meet that you're a millionaire, or a billionaire, or whatever it is you are; that you want to be judged on your talent. I understand all that. But the way you chose to tell me–well, you could have done that a little differently. But, Erik, you haven't done anything that needs forgiving."

He brought his hand to my face and caressed my cheek.

"But answer one question for me?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Why did you tell me you couldn't pay me for the sittings?"

He studied me for a long moment. "You had no expectations that way. Am I right?"

I cocked my head, not entirely sure what he meant.

"You had some sort of need of your own to fill by posing, didn't you? To prove something to yourself? You don't need the money. Tell me truthfully: would you have done it if I had paid you?"

I thought about that for a moment, then I shook my head. "No, I don't suppose I would have."

Erik picked up the carton of ice cream. He pulled off the top, grinning and looking very much like a little boy sneaking a forbidden snack. We both picked up spoons from the tray and dug into the smooth, rich ice cream, savoring the flavor. It was Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch.

I enjoyed a few spoonfuls of the ice cream and left the rest of it for Erik. I reached for the bowl of fruit salad. I took a bite of the sweet chunks of fruit, and with my usual grace I managed to dribble some of the juice onto my chin. This didn't go unnoticed by Erik; he grinned at me.

"Still haven't mastered the use of the spoon, have you?"

He leaned towards me and licked the syrup dripping from my chin.

"Mm, you taste good," he murmured into my ear. Still chilled from the ice cream, his lips caressed the curve of my chin, and I shuddered involuntarily from the shock of the cold. He merely grinned and brought his lips higher to meet mine. Such a sweet, tender kiss; he tasted of vanilla and toffee.

That tiny amount of physical contact was more than enough to start my heart racing again, but I couldn't resist the urge to have a little fun as well, so I dipped my spoon back into the ice cream carton. Then I smeared it on the unmasked side of his face.

Erik flinched. I immediately assaulted him, licking the sweetness from him. "You don't taste so bad yourself," I said.

The ice cream, already softened, began to melt from the warmth of Erik's skin and the heat from the fire. It started dripping down his face, forming small rivulets and falling in droplets onto his chest. I followed each trail, licking the sweetness, lowering my head to lap up the melted cream on his chest like a hungry kitten. He groaned.

He obviously enjoyed this game, for he laid back against the cushions and untied the sash of his robe, baring himself to me. Then he reached out to me, grabbing a handful of the sweater I wore–_his_ sweater–and began tugging at it. I sat back, just out of his reach, and pulled it the rest of the way off. I tossed it aside.

Not quite ready to give up this flavorful game, I peeked into the bakery box to see what was inside and grinned slyly at him as I took out a cannoli. I dipped my fingers into the soft, gooey filling and spread a thin layer on the smooth skin of his chest and abdomen. He stifled a laugh at the coldness of the creamy pastry filling as I bent over him and began to lick him clean. I hadn't eaten one of those things in years; I had forgotten how delicious they were. Or, maybe it was Erik that tasted so good...

While I consumed the last of the pastry filling, Erik prepared his assault on me: he had a huge creampuff in his hand. He pushed me off of him, onto my back, and with a big grin on his face and unmistakable mischief in his eyes he was preparing to smear the entire thing all over me.

Then I heard the unmistakable chirping of my cell phone.

I groaned.

Erik lifted his head. "What is that?" he asked.

"My phone." I started to get up to answer it.

"Don't."

"I have to. It's probably the hospital." I fished the phone out of my coat pocket.

"Are you on call?"

"No, but they would still call in an emergency." I flipped the phone open and answered without checking the number on the screen. "Hello?" I said into the phone.

"Chris? Where are you? I've been calling your apartment for hours!"

It was Randy. I wanted to wring his neck.

"Why are you calling me? It's..." I looked at the screen on my phone for the time. "...one-thirty in the friggin' morning!"

"I was worried about you, sweetheart."

"I'm just fine!" I flipped the phone shut and dropped it on my coat.

I wished I could have slammed the phone down into Randy's ear. Sometimes I miss old-fashioned telephones.

I turned back to Erik, hoping to pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted, when my blasted phone rang again. Erik and I exchanged an exasperated look.

This time I glanced at the caller ID before I answered.

"Damn, it is the hospital this time," I said to Erik, crestfallen.

I flipped the phone open again. "Hello?"

"Christine, this is Henry. I am sorry for calling you at this hour, but we're severely understaffed here. Three doctors called in sick with the flu, and we are swamped. We desperately need you to come in."

I glanced at Erik. I had a feeling he knew what the call was about from the expression on my face.

"Dr. Denton?" The voice on the other end of the line was anxious.

I mouthed "I'm sorry" to Erik.

He nodded to me in understanding.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," I said to Henry over the phone.

"Oh, thank you so much. We'll be waiting."

I flipped the phone shut again.

XXXXX

Dressed in record time, I stood at the front entrance. Erik had dressed in his trousers and sweater while I put myself back together.

Erik helped me into my coat. He put his arms around me and pulled me close for a good-bye kiss.

"When can I see you again?" he asked.

"I'm off on Wednesday," I offered. "Maybe we can do something during the day."

"I think that sounds perfect."

We kissed again.

"May I ask one more question?" I inquired.

"_Absolument_. What is it?"

"The painting. Why did you hang it in your bedroom?"

He laughed softly; it wasn't quite the response I expected from him. I could feel the vibration of his laugh in his chest.

"Do you really have to ask that?"


	12. Chapter 11, Beautiful Music

Hello all-  
Here's the newest chapter of "A Thousand Words"! I know that the plot has been a little thin up till now, but I never claimed to be writing "Pride and Prejudice"-just a fluffy little fanfic. The plot will thicken up soon, though! I hope you like this installment. Please take a quick moment to drop me a review. Thank you my dears!  
-ls

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 11  
****Beautiful Music**

"You know, when I suggested we do something today, I thought we would actually go _out_," I murmured to Erik as I snuggled closer to him in his massive bed.

His body was still warm from our most recent bout of lovemaking, and I was drawn to him as a moth is drawn to light in the darkness of a warm summer night.

"What fun would there be in that?" he retorted as he nuzzled my neck.

The right side of his face–the masked side–was buried against his soft, downy pillow, and all I could see was the beautiful, manly left side of his visage. I caressed his cheek and felt the faint beginnings of stubble along his jaw.

"Fun? Well, there's fresh air, and sunshine, and... food. I'm starving."

He raised his head to look at me with that devilish grin of his. The sun streaming in through the wall of windows made his mask glow.

"Starving, you say? I do believe I can remedy that problem."

"Oh no, not more Pringle's and ice cream!" I made a cross with my two index fingers as if warding off a vampire as the memories of the last time he fed me a "meal" popped into my mind.

He chuckled.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Come with me."

XXXXX

Clad in matching silk robes–he must have gone out shopping–and standing downstairs in the kitchen, I watched in amusement as Erik made a big show of rummaging around in the refrigerator before emerging with a huge covered pan.

"What's that?" I asked warily.

"Baked ziti. Or it will be, once it's baked."

I gawked at him with wide eyes. "You cook?"

"I have been known to," he said with a self-satisfied smirk. "I just don't like to cook only for myself."

"When did you do this?"

"This morning, before you came over."

He slid the pan into the oven, setting the temperature and the timer.

"There," he said with no small amount of satisfaction. "Would you like a piece of fruit or something to tide you over until this is ready?"

"No, thank you," I said. "I think I'll wait for the main course."

Erik selected a bottle of wine from the well-stocked rack, pulled two glasses out of the cupboard and ushered me into the living room.

My gaze fell on the gleaming black baby grand in the corner.

"Do you play?" I asked, gesturing to the finely crafted instrument.

"A little," was his answer.

If I knew Erik, he played more than just "a little." In our short time together I hadn't known him to do anything just "a little."

"Would you play for me?"

"If you like."

After he poured wine for both of us and we clinked our glasses in a silent toast, he seated himself before the keys and took a deep breath.

I was right.

I was astounded at the music that poured forth from the piano by his hands. It was music I had never heard before: at times haunting, at times unbelievably romantic, at times so full of anguish it brought tears to my eyes. He played with his eyes closed, with so much emotion on his face–at least, on as much of his face as I could see–that I knew this music was his own creation. Were there no limits to the man's talents?

When it ended, all I could do was look at him, dumbfounded.

Erik looked up at me, waiting for my response.

"That was wonderful," I said quietly, trying with all my might to keep the tears at bay. "You wrote that?"

He nodded.

"So your talents lie not only on the canvas."

He smiled. "So it would seem."

"Would you play some more?"

I felt like a child begging for another piggy-back ride, but I couldn't help it. I was entranced.

He turned back to the piano. "I didn't write this one," he said to me.

I immediately recognized the tune he played. It was an old standard, "Autumn Leaves." My Aunt Millie had a recording of Frank Sinatra singing this song, and she nearly wore out the grooves of the album because she played it so much. And then, a few years ago, I found a recording of the same song by a brilliant singer named Eva Cassidy. It was just her voice, a guitar and a piano, and it was so raw with emotion that it brought tears to my eyes. When I found out that she had died from cancer before she gained the fame she so rightly deserved, the song became even more poignant.

I don't know what came over me, but I began singing along with the music.

_The falling leaves drift by my window,  
__The falling leaves of red and gold.  
__I see your lips, the summer kisses,  
__The sunburned hands I used to hold._

_Since you went away the days grow long.  
__And soon I'll hear old winter's song.  
__But I miss you most of all, my darling,  
__When autumn leaves start to fall._

As the last notes melted away into nothingness, Erik looked up at me in shock.

"I had no idea you could do that," he said in wonder.

"Do what?" I asked.

"Sing."

"I don't," I demurred. "I was in my high school choir, but I haven't sung in years."

"You have a beautiful voice. And I'm surprised you know that song."

I explained about Aunt Millie and her love for Ol' Blue Eyes. He smiled at my story.

"You probably didn't know the song was originally written in French," he said. "The title was 'Les Feuilles Mortes.' I have never heard it sung in English before."

"Maybe sometime you'll sing it in French for me?"

"Perhaps."

"Erik, would you sing something for me?"

"What would you like to hear?"

"Anything."

He thought for a moment.

"Do you like the Beatles?"

We had never talked about music, our likes and dislikes. If we had, he would have known that the Beatles were my favorite group. Even though I was too young to even remember when they broke up, I loved their songs and listened to their music all the time. In my opinion, no other group has or ever will come close to them.

"Love them."

"All right then, this is for you."

I immediately recognized the opening chords of "Let it Be." I held my breath in anticipation of hearing him sing for the first time.

He sang of finding himself in times of trouble and of speaking words of wisdom.

Oh. My. God.

Paul McCartney paled in comparison to the man seated at the piano, pouring his heart and soul into this song. He was simply sublime.

He sang of being in his hour of darkness and of speaking words of wisdom.

I moved to stand behind him and slid my arms over his shoulders, caressing his chest through the silk robe. He leaned back into my embrace as he continued singing. Through our contact I could feel the vibrations of his voice course through my body like an electrical charge, making me shiver.

What was this man doing in an artist's studio, surrounded by canvases and covered in paint, when he should be sharing his God-given voice with the world? He could be singing arias in the best opera houses in the world, yet he chooses to hide away in that tiny garret! Even before the thought completely formulated itself in my mind, I knew the answer: his mask. He didn't want to face the world and all the questions that inevitably would follow.

In that moment, I felt such a profound sorrow for Erik. He had so much talent, so much to give, yet he kept it all hidden away for fear of rejection and ridicule.

He sang of a night that is cloudy and of a light shining down on him.

_Let it be, let it be.  
__Let it be, let it be.  
__Whisper words of wisdom,  
__Let it be._

A single tear slid down my cheek. I wasn't sure whether it was from the sound of his voice or from the sadness I felt for all the sacrifices he must have made in his life.

XXXXX

Dinner was splendid. The pasta turned out perfectly, and he added a green salad and a loaf of fresh Italian bread to round out the meal.

After stuffing myself in a very unladylike manner, I sat back and took another sip of wine.

"So, you paint, you play and sing, you cook..." I nodded to the table for emphasis of that point, "...is there anything you don't do?"

Erik thought for a moment.

"I don't ski."

I forced myself to keep from bursting out laughing. "Why not?"

"Something about strapping two boards to my feet and sliding down the side of a mountain doesn't sit well with me," he explained before draining his glass.

"Don't they have a name for that?"

He pursed his lips. "Fear of death."

I laid my hand over his on the table. "Well, I'll just have to help you get over that fear."

He snorted. "Not bloody likely."

Erik shifted a bit in his seat as he toyed with his empty wine glass. I could tell he had something to say, and it couldn't be good the way he was fidgeting.

"Christine, I hate to ruin the mood, but I have something I need to tell you."

_Oh shit. _

Those words are the kiss of death in any relationship. My heart dropped into my stomach.

"I have something I need to tell you" is a first cousin to "we need to talk," and in my experience a conversation beginning with either of those sentences never turns out well. It's usually followed closely by "It's not you, it's me" or "I'm not ready to make a commitment" or some other lame kiss-off line.

I thought we had been doing very well. I thought we made a real connection.

I guess I thought wrong.

A shaky "Yes?" was all I managed to get out of my mouth. I braced myself for whatever would come.

"I have to go to Paris for a few days."

I exhaled the breath I didn't realize I had been holding in. _Oh, is _that_ all?_

"Paris? What for?"

"My parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. They have demanded that I be there for the celebration."

"But you really should, for such an important occasion," I said to him.

"I just don't want to have the same arguments with them that we've had dozens of times before. And, I would be without you."

His face brightened just as he finished that last sentence. He took hold of my hand as he asked, "Would you come with me?"

"Me? Go to Paris?"

_He wants me to go with him? He likes me, he likes me, he really, really likes me!_

He leaned forward in his seat. "Of course! We could make a vacation of it, see the sights. Please say you will. You would make the trip bearable for me."

_Oh, yes! Yes! YES! _

_...no._

"Oh Erik, I wish I could, truly I do, but I just started back to work. I can't possibly take time off right now."

"You're certain?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry."

He looked crestfallen, like I was sending him into the den of wolves all alone. Which, in fact, I was.

XXXXX

As night fell, we found ourselves reclining on the sofa. I was lying back against him and his arms were around me as we gazed into the hypnotizing flames of the fire.

We lay together in silence for a long while, just enjoying being together. Erik absently ran his fingers up and down my arm.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"You've never spoken of your mask. Will you tell me about it?"

He sighed heavily, but did not say anything.

"Was it an accident?" I asked.

"No," he answered quietly, "It is a... disfigurement that has graced me from birth."

I couldn't see his face, but I could tell from the tightness in his voice that this was a subject he would rather avoid.

"Will you show me?"

"No."

His answer was firm. The tone in his voice told me there would be no discussion about it.

"Why?"

"Only my family have seen my face. And one woman–girl–a long time ago. She... well, I never saw her again... afterwards."

I knew I needed to tread lightly; this obviously was a very delicate subject for him. I turned in his arms to face him.

"Erik," I said softly, "I know that whatever is behind your mask must have caused you much pain in your life. But please understand that I'm not some foolish girl. I am a woman, and a physician at that. But I won't push you. I know you'll show me when you're ready."

To place emphasis on my words, I kissed him with all the passion I could muster to let him know that I wasn't going anywhere.

How could I? I had fallen in love.

_* I do not own "Falling Leaves"-it was written by Jacques Prévert (French lyrics), Johnny Mercer, (English lyrics) and Joseph Kosma (music)._  
_I also do not own "Let it Be"-It, of course, was written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney._


	13. Chapter 12, From a Distance

**A Thousand Words**

**Chapter 12**

**From a Distance**

_[In which Erik and Christine discover that telephones are good for more than just talking]_

I sat bolt upright in bed as the telephone jingled merrily away in the darkness of my bedroom. The clock by my bedside informed me it was 3:12 a.m. in big, glowing blue numbers. Only the hospital would call me at this hour. I wasn't on call so there must be a real emergency. I reached for the receiver.

"Dr. Denton here," I said into the phone, my voice thick with sleep. I yawned into the receiver.

"Oh, my darling, I'm sorry, I forgot all about the time difference. I woke you, didn't I?" It was Erik's voice; I recognized it even though it was muffled by the huge distance between us.

"Oh, no, not really," I lied. In fact, I had just fallen asleep. I was unable to stifle another yawn, and I was sure he heard it all the way across the Atlantic.

"Yes, I did. Do you want me to call back later?"

"No, no, it's okay. How are you, Erik?"

By this time my heartbeat had slowed back down to its normal rhythm, and I settled back into bed and pulled the covers over me. The room was extremely cold, and the last thing I wanted to do right then was get out of bed to turn up the heat.

"Tired. Jetlagged. Mad as hell. You know, the usual. I needed to hear a friendly voice."

I giggled. "I take it the visit is not going so well?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose. I knew what would happen. Or at least I should have known."

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes. Get on a plane and come to Paris."

I sighed into the phone. "Believe me, I wish I could."

Erik had tried twice more to convince me to accompany him on his trip to Paris, but as much as I would have liked to have gone with him, I just could not get the time off from the hospital. My heart ached as I watched him board the plane, knowing that I wouldn't see him for an entire week. It would be the longest space of time we had ever been apart.

"I know. Forgive me, but I had to try. It's just horrid. Who would believe that a joyous occasion like an anniversary could be so stressful? Mother is fussing about every minute detail of the party, Father is his usual self - stonefaced and silent, and Jacques, well..."

"Oh, Jacques. How are... things with him?"

"I'm not sure. He hasn't said a word, and I don't want to press him. But I gather from his current mood that it's not good."

He sighed heavily into the phone. He sounded defeated.

"But the party's the day after tomorrow, and then you can come back home." I tried to sound upbeat about it. "I miss you," I added, nearly whispering into the phone.

"And I you. Oh, I dread this party. It'll just be more of the same: 'When are you coming back for good,' and 'Why don't you come to your senses and give up this silly art hobby thing of yours,' and 'When are you going to get a real job and live a normal life.' And this not only from family, but friends as well."

"So no one has quite accepted you in your chosen profession, have they?"

"No. No one. I'm beginning to wonder why I came back here at all."

"Because they're your family. And you'd never forgive yourself if you weren't there to help your parents celebrate. Give them some time; they'll come around when they realize you're serious. Or when you become world-famous."

He chuckled. "I suppose. But I wish I were there with you right now."

"So do I, believe me. You could help keep me warm. It's freezing in here."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Are you in bed?" he asked. His voice had dropped a bit. I recognized that tone; I knew it very well. It sent a shiver down my spine, even coming all the way from France.

"Yes."

"What are you wearing?"

I was wearing flannel pajamas and woolen socks, but I wasn't about to admit that to him.

"What do you wish I was wearing?" I asked, even though I knew full well what his answer would be.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

I laughed softly. "That's what I thought." My voice grew deeper, breathier. "I'm lying here, all alone, in my big bed, under all these soft, luxurious blankets, with absolutely nothing on."

"Mmmmmm. I like that. Can you imagine me there with you?"

"Yes," I replied. Just hearing his silky voice in my ear was all that I needed to picture him there with me.

"Where are you now?" I asked.

"In my hotel room, in bed."

"Can you imagine me there with you as well?"

"I can always imagine you," he purred into the phone. "I have a very vivid imagination."

"Mmmmmm," I answered. "And are you... clothed?"

"Not a stitch on," was his reply.

"Good," I said.

"Close your eyes," he whispered. His voice was very low, very quiet, almost hypnotic.

"They're closed," I said.

"_C'est bon_. I'm there with you, in bed with you, right next to you. Can you feel me there?"

I sighed. "Yes."

"Can you feel my lips brush against yours, softly, tenderly?"

"Yes." I lightly touched a finger to my lips, imagining his lips there in its place.

"I'm kissing you, moving my lips across your cheek, down your throat."

My fingers trailed down the side of my face, down my neck, as his voice sounded in my ear.

"I can taste you, the sweetness of your skin," he whispered. "You are so tantalizing. I want more of you."

I squirmed a bit in my bed. I had no trouble picturing him with me; just having his mesmerizing voice in my head was enough to arouse me. I could feel my nipples hardening and the familiar warmth begin to grow deep in my loins.

"Yes. More," I whispered.

"My lips are moving down, caressing your shoulder, tasting more of you, going down farther, rising along the slope of your beautiful breast. My mouth is covering your hard little nipple. Can you feel my tongue there, stroking you?"

I touched my breast. Even through the flannel the nipple drew up tightly, becoming hard as a little stone. I ran my finger in circles around it, rolling it, envisioning Erik's tongue tormenting it as he had done so many times.

"I feel it." My breathing was already deepening. I was sure he could hear it over the many miles.

"My hands are caressing you, loving you," he whispered into my ear. "Can you feel them?"

My own hand trailed down to my stomach. A delicious chill ran down my spine as I thought of Erik's hands and how they felt as they caressed me.

"Yessss..." I whispered.

I could hear him breathing into the phone. I could only imagine what he was doing on the other end, and the thought of that excited me even more.

Erik continued whispering naughty things to me over the telephone, making me even more aroused, and I answered each one of his naughty utterances with one of my own.

He called me a shameless vixen.

I called him a bad influence.

We grew more and more aroused, more and more excited; our breathing shallower and more erratic, until could hear that Erik was as close to his climax as I was. I wanted us to experience it together, despite the distance between us.

"Oh, Erik, I'm so close..." I whispered into the phone.

"Yes, my darling, let it come," he purred into my ear between gasps. "Let it come."

Just the sound of his voice was enough to send me over the edge. I dropped into the void, crying out Erik's name as I fell. Erik was right behind me; I heard him cry out my name over the phone between great gasps for air.

We both were silent for a long while.

Then Erik chuckled.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"The miracles of modern technology," he said. "I can make love to you even though you're half a world away."

I smiled. "It's almost as good as being there," I said with a laugh. "Almost, but not quite."

"My darling, much as I want to make love to you again and again, I should let you get some sleep," Erik said.

"Yes, I do have to go and save lives in the morning."

"Thank you," he whispered into the phone.

"For what?"

"For giving me something wonderful to think about during that horrid party."

"You'll survive the party, and then you'll be back home in no time."

"Yes, and for that I cannot wait," he growled.

"Good night, Erik," I said.

"_Bonne nuit, mon ange_."

"Mon what?" I asked.

He laughed. "_Mon ange_. It means 'my angel'."

"Mmmm. My angel. I like that."

"You should, for that is what you are," he whispered.

"You are too kind, my good sir," I said with a giggle.

"I only speak the truth, my fair maiden. Good night, and pleasant dreams."

And then he was gone.

I hung up the phone and, with a smile on my face, rolled over. Before I drifted off to sleep again, I found myself wondering how many other people had had sex across the Atlantic that night.


	14. Chapter 13, The Mystery's Afoot

_A/N: Hello all! Just wanted to give a shout out to PhantomFan01 and HeartsBroken for all your lovely reviews. To everyone else who reads, if you love, hate or are indifferent, please leave a review! Thanks so much for taking the time to read my little story._  
_-ls_

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 13  
****The Mystery's Afoot**

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

Randy sounded more than just a little bit annoyed with me. He had finally browbeat me into having dinner with him, but my mind was a thousand miles away.

In France, to be exact.

I looked up from my salad and managed the most eloquent response I could think of.

"Huh?"

"I finally get you go to go out to dinner with me, but you're not really here. I've been talking to you for five minutes, but you haven't heard a word I've said. I ask again: What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I answered quietly, focusing once more on my salad.

"Bullshit," he answered in his usual tactful way. He sounded fairly angry, and his cursing turned more than a few heads in the upscale restaurant. "I know you too well, Chris. Something's up. Tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Tell me..."

"Nothing, Randy."

"Chris-_tine_..."

"I don't want to talk about it." I viciously stabbed a cherry tomato.

He sat back in his chair with a smug smile on his face.

"So, there is something, but you're not talking. The mystery's afoot, my dear Watson!"

"Randy, please..." I said, imploring him to drop the subject, but he was like a wild beast who had gotten its claws into a tasty snack and was not about to let go.

Randy tapped his chin with his forefinger, deep in thought. "Hmmm. You've disappeared off the face of the earth for several weeks, no one can get in touch with you, and you don't want to talk about it. That can only mean one thing–you're involved with someone."

I think the expression on my face must have been something akin to a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

"That's it!" he exclaimed, rather pleased with himself for solving the mystery. "You've met someone you don't want any of your friends to know about!"

"No."

"Yes, that's it."

"No, Randy, that's not it at all. You have it all wrong."

"Then why doesn't anyone know of his existence?" He grinned devilishly. "Or could it be..._ her _existence?"

I shot him a dirty look.

"Of course it's a_ him_, you fool," I hissed at him. "You don't know about_ him _because we wanted to keep things just between _us_ for the time being, that's all. So _we_ wouldn't have to deal with asinine questions from _nosy friends_. We just wanted time to _ourselves_."

Randy looked a bit hurt at my outburst, but he had it coming. At times he could give the worst muckraking, meddling, busybody gossip reporter in the world a run for his money. But I did hate to hurt his feelings; he was, after all, a dear friend. I sighed heavily.

"Randy," I began, "I'm sorry. It's just that you know how I hate being given the third degree like that."

"I would've told you if I had met someone," he said through a big pout.

I snorted. "You would've taken out a billboard in Times Square," I said.

He grinned. "Yeah, I probably would have."

The waiter delivered our main courses and whisked away our mostly uneaten salads. I had ordered a pasta dish, and Randy ordered the beef bourguignonne. We ate in a companionable silence for a few minutes.

After he took a sip of his wine, Randy looked me in the eye and asked, "So, are you going to tell me about this mystery man of yours?"

I swallowed my mouthful of pasta and said, "You met him briefly that night at the gallery. His name is Erik."

His brow furrowed as he tried to remember. Suddenly, his fork clanked down on his plate.

"You mean the guy with the mask?" he asked loud enough for everyone in the restaurant–and a few people outside on the sidewalk–to hear.

"Randy, keep your voice down!"

"That's who you're head over heels with? The masked man? Chrissy, have you _completely_ lost your _mind_?"

Heads turned in the restaurant once more, and I just wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Unfortunately it didn't, so I did the next best thing: I glared at Randy, then I grabbed my coat and walked out.

I didn't look behind me, but I knew he wouldn't be far behind.

I got about half a block down the street before I felt his hand on my arm, stopping me in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Chris, please stop," he said to me.

"How dare you," I hissed. "How dare you humiliate me like that, and in one of my favorite restaurants, no less! You have absolutely no right to denigrate anyone you don't know simply on the basis of his outward appearance. I always thought you better than that."

"But, Chrissy, what do you know of this guy, how did you meet him, where does he come from..."

"None of that is any of your business," I said coldly, once more turning away from him. "If you can't give him the benefit of the doubt–or the benefit of my good opinion–then, well,..."

"Look, I'm sorry, all right? It's just that you surprised me with all this."

"Yes, well, if you hadn't gone off half-cocked,..."

I shivered in the below-freezing weather.

"You're cold," Randy said. He glanced around. "Look, there's a pub just ahead. Let's go inside, get a drink and we'll talk, okay?"

"Only if you agree to behave." I eyed him carefully.

"I promise."

The pub was small and cozy, and we found a small table near the back. Randy ordered our drinks at the bar and then settled down across from me, a cautious smile on his face.

"Look, Chrissy, I'm really sorry about my outburst. I was just taken by surprise. Truce?"

"Only if you stop calling me 'Chrissy.' You know how I hate that."

"Oh. Yeah. I forgot."

"So tell me, Randy," I said, leaning over my glass of wine, "was it the fact that I had met someone or the fact that it was Erik that got you so worked up?"

Randy's eyes widened at my question and he sat back in his seat, pondering my words.

After a long moment, he said, "Both."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Come on, it's hardly a secret that you never date, that you close yourself off from nearly everyone–especially men. So yeah, I was surprised to hear that you were seeing someone. And to find out that that someone was... well, different... I don't know, it just threw me for a loop."

Much as I hated to admit it, he spoke the truth. I honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd been on a date, and it wasn't because I hadn't been asked; I always found one excuse or another for not accepting the invitations. I usually used work as my excuse, but truthfully my job didn't keep me nearly as busy as I said it did.

Randy was right, but I didn't have to like hearing all this from him.

"You didn't have to react the way you did."

"No, I didn't. And I apologize."

"If you knew him, you'd know that he's intelligent, and kind, and talented..."

"Will I get to meet him?" he interrupted.

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again. I wasn't entirely sure if that was a good idea, at least not right now, and I said as much to Randy.

"I suppose I understand. So how come you're not with him tonight?"

"Besides the fact that you've been hounding me for weeks to have dinner with you?" I asked him with a grin. "He's in Paris right now."

"Paris?" Randy repeated with a surprised look on his face. "Why?"

"Visiting his family."

"Why didn't you go with him?"

"He wanted me to, but I couldn't take the time off work," I explained.

"Oh." He paused for a few seconds. "So, you two are pretty serious, then." Randy muttered into his glass of beer.

"I... I suppose you could say that."

"Well, I'm very happy for you." Randy didn't smile or even lift his head as he expressed his happiness for me.

It wasn't at all like him.

"Randy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, still not lifting his head.

"Tell me."

"It's just... it's just that I always thought that you and I would end up together."

His eyes, when he finally brought his gaze to meet mine, were filled with sadness.

"Oh, Randy, we tried that, and it didn't work out, don't you remember? There was no romance between us, no spark. That's why we're friends."

"There was no spark on your side, but there was on mine. I agreed to the friends thing because I hoped that someday you'd find that spark in yourself. I guess I was wrong. Have a good life with your masked lover, Christine."

Randy stood, picked up his coat, and was gone.

I was so stunned by his words that I didn't have the presence of mind to follow him. I didn't know that I wanted to.

Randy had agreed to be friends with me all this time because he hoped I would fall in love with him? That's why he played Scrabble with me and tried to nurse me back to health and called me incessantly?

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I'm really a blind idiot.

How could I not have seen it?

I took a huge gulp of my wine and headed out into the frigid night, back home to my empty apartment. It really wasn't that far, so I decided to walk. I needed the cold air to clear my head anyway. And I needed some time to think.

Randy was one of the sweetest guys I had ever known, but there really were no feelings of the romantic persuasion there for me. He seemed to me to be more like the big brother, the boy next door, the boy you could tell all your secrets to, all your problems to. We got along famously and spent a lot of time together whenever we could.

Come to think of it, I didn't remember Randy having a serious relationship with a woman since I'd known him. He had dated several women, but never for very long. Was he really waiting for me to "come to my senses" and realize that he was the man for me? Surely not! Oh, dear me, I hope not! Surely he hasn't been pining away for me, waiting for me.

But the look on his face back at the bar said it all. He _had_ been waiting for me, and I had dashed all his hopes by declaring my love for Erik. But did I actually declare my love, or did I just say we were involved? I couldn't remember. Either way, Randy was crushed.

And I couldn't even talk to Erik about all this, because he was half a world away in France!

When I got back to my apartment, I picked up Spot and settled down in my favorite chair, scratching the cat behind his ears. He responded with a loud purr.

"Am I that much of a dunce, babe?" I asked him, looking into his big green eyes.

"Mrowr," Spot responded, pawing my lap and curling up contentedly.

"Some conversationalist you are," I muttered to the cat, absently petting his soft fur.

I picked up the TV remote and pressed the on button. An old movie was on, but I couldn't really concentrate on the action.

I sighed as I leaned back. Maybe I should just think about all this tomorrow. As Scarlett O'Hara once said, I thought wryly, tomorrow is another day.


	15. Chapter 14, Return to Me

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 14  
****Return to Me**

The knock on my front door startled me. I looked up from my book and wondered who would be out on a night like this–the snow was really coming down outside, and it was bitterly cold.

I pushed aside the afghan I had thrown over my lap and unfolded myself from my big overstuffed chair. When I looked through the peephole, my heart skipped a beat.

I hastily unlocked the door and opened it to reveal Erik standing there before me, holding a piece of luggage in each hand. He wore a black fedora, pulled down low over his mask, and a long black overcoat that swirled around his legs. He had the coat buttoned all the way up and the collar turned up against his neck. A few brave snowflakes managed to stay, unmelted, on his hat and on the shoulders of his coat. He stamped the snow from his shoes.

He was a sight. A sight for sore eyes.

He stepped over the threshold, dropped his bags, and took me in his arms. His kiss was so insistent it took my breath away. I unbuttoned and slid my hands under his overcoat, pushing it off his shoulders, and it fell to the floor in a wet heap. I missed him the few days he was away in Paris, but I didn't realize just how much until he magically appeared in my living room.

Without saying a word, we both began tugging and pulling at each other's clothes. I somehow managed to reach behind him to close and lock the door before he pushed me up against the wall. With one quick motion he pulled my sweater over my head, tossing it aside. Another deft movement and he had my sweatpants down around my ankles. My trembling fingers fumbled at the zipper of his trousers.

In a matter of moments we were frantically joined, pushing the outside of the envelope, charting unexplored lands. Make no mistake about it–this was not making love. This was two bodies calling out to one another; it was lust-filled hormones screaming for satisfaction; it was instinct-driven, needful, animalistic coupling. We even sounded like animals as we grunted and moaned our way through this bout of mad copulation. We must have been quite a sight as well: he, with his trousers pooled around his ankles; and me, braced against the wall, my legs wrapped around him, my panties dangling off one foot. With one hand he roughly took hold of one of my breasts and I cried out, partly in pain and partly in pleasure. With the other hand he grasped my hip, digging his fingers into my flesh and I cried out, partly in pain and partly in pleasure. With both hands I grabbed his buttocks and dug my fingernails into his skin and he cried out, partly in pain and partly in pleasure.

Anyone unlucky enough to be walking by in the hallway at that moment would have been hard pressed to explain the thumping and strange noises coming through the wall from my apartment.

XXXXX

Our initial needs finally sated, Erik carried me into my bedroom and we snuggled in bed under the warm blankets.

"I thought you weren't coming back until tomorrow," I finally managed to say.

"I booked myself on the first available flight out," he said as he drew one finger down the side of my neck and across my shoulder. "I couldn't stand it any longer."

I moaned as he took my nipple in his mouth and sucked it, pulling at it with his lips, gently biting it. Oh, how I missed his touch! His hands roamed all over my body as if trying desperately to reclaim what he had lost. I clung to him, clasping his body to mine, holding him tightly.

His lips again found mine. I felt his tongue travel over my lips, and I opened my mouth, inviting him inside. His velvet tongue slid against mine, probing, exploring, penetrating.

"God, how I've missed you," he whispered into my ear, sending shivers up and down my spine. I was unable to speak; the only response I could muster was a groan as he wedged his knee between my legs.

XXXXX

We lay together, wrapped in each other's arms, under the many blankets on my bed.

"Mmmm, I'm so glad you came back early," I said, "Otherwise, I'd have had to call my other lover to satisfy me."

Erik turned towards me. "Your other lover?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "How many others do you have?"

I tried to keep a straight face. "Too many to count. It's so hard to keep them all straight, you know."

"Oh, it is?" One of his hands traveled under the blankets to a spot on my body he knew was especially ticklish. "And did you call these other lovers while I was gone?"

"Why should I tell you that?"

"Because if you don't,..." and he began tickling me mercilessly.

I giggled like a silly schoolgirl as I tried to get away from him and his tickling fingers, but he grabbed me, pulled me close to him and kissed me soundly.

He left me breathless with that kiss.

"Erik, of course there's no one else but you."

He kissed me again, a real toe-curling kiss that left me wanting even more.

"And there's no one for me but you."

"Yet..."

"Yet...?" he prompted.

I grinned. "Yet you go off to Paris without me and you don't bring anything back for me?"

He looked at me seriously. "Did you want me to bring something back for you?"

Uh-oh. Had I crossed some line here? "Well, no...," I began.

A lazy grin spread across his lips.

"Of course I did. Wait here."

He slipped out of bed and took a few steps toward the bedroom door.

"Wait," I said to him. "Come back."

He came back to the bed and sat down next to me. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," I replied with a grin. "I just wanted another look at your gorgeous derrière. You can go now."

He leaned over to kiss me and then he was off again, this time walking very slowly so I could get a good, long look.

I could hear Erik rummaging through his luggage in the living room. He reappeared a few moments later carrying a small parcel. I eyed it curiously as he got back into bed and pulled the covers back up over the both of us.

"This is for you," he said simply as he handed the box to me.

I confess that my hands trembled a bit as I opened the package to reveal a square, flat jeweler's case. "Erik, you didn't have to..."

"Shhh, just open it," he said.

I pulled open the top to reveal an exquisite necklace. The pendant was in the shape of a rose in full bloom with a stem and leaves attached, all wrought in solid gold. The matching ornate chain also was handcrafted in gold. The workmanship was old-world in style, yet it looked brand new. The rose was so finely detailed that I imagined I could smell its fragrance.

"Oh, Erik, this is... it's just beautiful!"

"There's a story that goes with that necklace," he said as he pulled the delicate item out of the box and clasped it around my neck.

"Please tell me." I settled back into his arms.

"I had gone out for a walk one afternoon to clear my head, and to get away from my relatives, when I found myself on this tiny, narrow street in a very old part of the city. There was this jeweler's shop there that looked like it had been there for a hundred years or more and hadn't changed a bit in all those years–leaded glass in the storefront windows, a weathered sign hanging out front, and some beautiful pieces of jewelry in the window. Something made me go inside. For some reason it made me think of you."

"How sweet," I said, fingering the necklace.

"Hush, let me tell the story," he commanded with a smile.

"Sorry. Please continue."

"Well. I went inside, and this little man who looked to be about as old as the shop itself emerged from the back room when he heard the door. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked at me through his thick little round spectacles for the longest time with the strangest expression on his face, and I thought for a moment he was about to ask me to leave."

"Leave? Why?"

"It wouldn't be the first time someone mistook me for a thief," he murmured as his hand slowly rose to touch his mask.

"Oh," I whispered. "People really do that?"

"More than you know."

The sadness in his eyes spoke volumes.

I took his hand in mine and lifted it to my lips.

"I'm so sorry. Please continue."

He gently squeezed my hand and held it in his lap.

"Anyhow, the old man smiled after a minute and said, 'Monsieur, come in, come in!' He waved for me to come in, and he disappeared into the back room for a few moments. I could hear him back there, rummaging about, and then he came back out with this box and handed it to me. 'Here you are,' he said, 'we have kept it for you.'"

"Kept it for you? What did he mean?"

"I didn't know at the time. But he explained that his grandfather, who originally owned the shop, told him the tale long ago about a mysterious man who wore a mask who came into the shop one day and ordered a gold necklace in the shape of a rose. He never came back to retrieve it, but the grandfather insisted that one day he would. 'You must keep it,' the grandfather told him, 'for he will return.'"

"And he kept it, all those years?" I asked.

"_Absolument_. He kept his promise to his grandfather."

He reached up to trace the golden rose petals with one finger. "I kept trying to tell him that I was not him, that I was not the same man who ordered the necklace, but he insisted. 'You are Monsieur Erik, no?' he asked me. Well, I was shocked that he knew my name. 'And your lady love is Mademoiselle Christine.' Then he showed me the inscription on the back of the rose."

Erik turned the rose over and showed me, etched in tiny letters, the sentiment. "Pour C, d'E."

"You see?" he said to me. "'For Christine, from Erik."

I looked at the inscription for a long moment, then I gazed up at Erik with wonder. "This is all so strange..."

Erik smiled wryly at me. "Not quite so strange as this..." He reached inside the box, under the velvet where the necklace lay for so long, and pulled out a yellowed sheet of paper. He held it up for me to see. It was the original order for the necklace. "Look at the date."

I searched the page until I found it, and I gasped. The date was November 20, 1871.

XXXXX

"I still can't see it..."

Erik was whining about not being able to see New Jersey from my living room window. I peered into the living room from the kitchen and got a marvelous view of his derrière as he leaned out the window. He was wearing black trousers–extremely well-fitting black trousers–and a black turtleneck sweater. He looked good enough to eat.

"If you fall out of that window, don't come crying to me!" I said to him from the kitchen doorway.

He turned back to look at me.

"You mean you wouldn't help me if I fell and hurt myself?" He assumed his best lost-puppy look and batted his eyes at me.

"Well, let's see," I began as I leaned against the door jamb and folded my arms. "You're hanging out a sixth-floor window that's icy and wet. You're a grownup who should know better than to do something that stupid. So, no, I wouldn't help you," I retorted with a grin.

He laughed and withdrew from the cold outside. I shivered. I could see that the snow flurries had grown in intensity to a full-fledged storm; the white flakes seemed to have grown to the size of baseballs as the wind whipped them in all directions.

"The visibility is probably close to zero right now, with the snow," I said. "You can't even see to the end of the block, can you?"

"No," he said. "It's really coming down, even harder than when I arrived."

"Well, then, I guess we won't be going out dancing tonight after all."

I was disappointed. I had been looking forward to going dancing with Erik all week, and now we were stuck inside, practically snowed in.

"Well, dinner is almost ready, so why don't you light the candles on the table?"

"Sure."

I watched him as we ate, and in my mind's eye I kept seeing Erik's hands, those hands with their practiced fingers that could so easily drive me to the pinnacle of ecstasy, those hands that had painted such an astonishing portrait of me. I saw his lips, those soft, supple lips that could alternately caress my flesh and then torment it, igniting a passion in me that I never knew I had. I also saw his eyes, those uniquely-colored windows to his soul, those mirrors that reflected an image of me I had never before seen. I could feel my heart pounding away.

"A penny for your thoughts." His voice broke my reverie and brought me back into the present. I blushed. Surely he couldn't have read my thoughts?

I gazed up into his eyes and opened my mouth to answer him, and in that instant we were plunged into a darkness that was broken only by the two tapers lazily flickering between us on the table.

"Oh no," I said as I stood up and went to the window. "Not again!"

What a time for the power to go out! Sure enough, I could see nothing but blackness outside. The entire world, or what little of it I could see from my vantage point, was dark. And silent. There was virtually no traffic in the street below, and all I could hear was the faint plopping of snowflakes as they hit the glass and then slid down to the window's ledge.

Erik's arms snaked around me from behind, and we stood together looking out into the blackness of the city. He rested his chin on top of my head.

"Now we're _really _stuck here, aren't we?" he asked.

"I guess so. We'll have to put up with each other for a while." I said that as if it were a bad thing–all in all, it didn't sound too terrible!

"I've got a portable radio in the kitchen," I continued. "Let's see what they have to say."

Erik followed me into the kitchen, picking up one of the candles from the dining table, and I switched on the radio. Nothing but static on the station I usually listened to, so I turned the dial, slowly, trying to find another.

"...and with the power down in all of Manhattan and much of the outlying boroughs, police and rescue officials urge everyone to stay indoors. Snow accumulations vary from five to ten inches throughout the city, and the National Weather Service is predicting a total snowfall of twelve to fifteen inches before this front moves out of our area. Repeating, Con Edison personnel are working to restore power, believed to be caused by sudden heavy snowfall, and all New Yorkers are urged to stay indoors. The subways have been shut down by this power outage, and efforts are underway to rescue those stranded on trains stuck between stations. Stay tuned to this station..."

"This sounds serious," I said. "Maybe I should call the hospital..."

I reached for the phone on the wall behind me. The line was dead.

"The phones have been knocked out too." I replaced the receiver.

Erik had been fiddling with the radio, searching for another station. He stopped when strains of soft music emerged from the speakers.

It suddenly occurred to me that we were in almost total darkness. "Let's light some more candles," I said.

I have to admit that I'm a sucker for candles; I have them everywhere in my apartment. We lit several, giving the room light but casting flickering ominous shadows everywhere.

Then, in the semi-darkness, I felt Erik's arms circling around me from behind. He expertly spun me around to face him, and I looked up into his smiling face.

"We planned on going dancing," he said, "and I see no reason why we still can't."

I had dressed for an evening of dancing in a black long-sleeved dress with a full skirt that fell just below my knees. It swirled around my legs as Erik spun me to him, and its low neckline was the perfect frame for the gold rose necklace.

We began to move slowly together in time with the static-filled music drifting in from the kitchen. He held me tightly against him with one arm while his other hand held mine and tucked it against his chest. We clung to one another, swaying to the music in the semi-darkness. I laid my head against his shoulder and sighed softly.

Dancing in my living room, in the near-darkness, was a wonderful way to spend the evening–better, perhaps, than going out. This way, we were alone, private, isolated.

Erik's hand slowly began traveling up and down my back, caressing, tender, sweet. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed each of my fingers. Still we kept time with the music. I lifted my face to meet his, and he leaned down to kiss me. Our lips barely touched, but the passionate flames were instantly rekindled within me. He let go of my hand and gently caressed my face.

"I'm glad we're not going out. I like it much better here," he said.

"Mmmmm. Me too."

We kissed again, a long, lingering kiss, and when our tongues met and began their own dance, I heard myself moan. My hand slid up the back of his neck and brought his head down closer to me. His arm tightened around me, holding me even closer to him, and as we moved together in time to the music I felt the familiar tell-tale sign of his arousal. I pressed my hips against him.

"I can feel you," I whispered in his ear.

"Shhh," he whispered back, "I want to dance."

He kissed me softly, then laid his head on top of mine.

"But Erik..."

"I want to dance, Christine."

He held me tightly as he spun me around the living room.

We proceeded to dance the evening away–me, Erik, and the bulge in his trousers–as the snow continued to fall outside.


	16. Chapter 15, An Unfortunate Event

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 15  
****An Unfortunate Event**

I woke up in unfamiliar surroundings.

The room was dark and cold and smelled faintly of antiseptic. The bed I slept in was narrow and uncomfortable.

I began to panic; I needed to find out where I was and just how I got there, and fast. But the moment I lifted my head off the pillow, it began to throb and the room started spinning. I groaned as I laid my head back down.

"Don't try to get up, _mon ange_."

Erik's voice cut through both the darkness of the room and the fog in my head. I relaxed a bit, but I wasn't quite sure if it was from the sound of his voice or from the fact that the room had finally stopped moving.

I felt his hand on my shoulder, warm and comforting.

"Ohhh, my head... Where am I? What happened?"

My throat was dry, and the words came out as a harsh whisper that hung in the stillness of the air.

"I believe they said this is the on-call room," he said quietly.

"At the hospital?"

"Yes."

"Erik, what happened?"

"You had... an episode," he replied hesitantly.

_An episode? What the hell is he talking about? And why the hell don't I remember it?_

Even though I now could faintly make out the white of Erik's mask in the darkness, I wanted to see more of him. I reached over my head to turn on the small reading lamp that I knew was clamped to the bedframe. I squinted from the harsh glare of the bulb, and my head throbbed even more from the sudden onslaught of light, but I had to see his face as he told me what happened.

"What are you talking about, an 'episode'?"

"I'm not precisely sure, since I was not there, but I was told you... what was the phrase they used... 'freaked out' while tending to a patient."

_Oh, dear God, not again._

"Your friend... Meg... Margie..."

"Megan," I supplied.

"Yes, Megan. She called me to say that you were huddled up in a corner of one of the examination rooms. No one could get near you. She thought I could help."

"So you came for me?"

"Of course."

"And you stayed with me?"

He smiled. "I had nowhere else to be."

I reached out and took one of his hands in mine.

"Thank you," I said softly.

"I would do anything for you, my sweet," he whispered as his eyes met mine.

"Anything?" I said with a small smile.

He nodded.

"Then would you get me some water? My throat is so dry..."

He lifted my hand to his lips. "Your wish is my command, my lady."

XXXXX

"Christine? Oh, I'm so glad that you're awake!"

Megan's auburn head peered around the door before she slipped into the room and rushed to sit beside me. She took my hand in hers.

"We were all so worried about you!" she exclaimed. "We thought maybe you had a head injury, or aliens had taken over your brain, or something!"

Megan, one of the ER nurses, is one of my dearest friends.

She can, however, be a little overdramatic at times.

"No, nothing like that," I said to her. "I'm fine, except my head hurts like hell."

"That's probably the sedative they gave you. The dose was enough to stop a charging rhinoceros."

That image didn't set very well with me.

"Sedative? Megan, please tell me what happened," I begged her.

"Well, I don't know all the details, but I do know that you were treating a gunshot victim, a teenage boy, in the trauma room. The next thing we knew you were screaming for everyone to get out, to leave you alone. You were like some kind of wild woman, Christine. You had everyone so frightened."

Some of my memory was beginning to return to me now.

"A teenage boy... yes, I remember that now. He was about fifteen and had been shot in the abdomen. I was about to send him for a CT when..."

The details were still fuzzy, and I struggled to remember. I closed my eyes, willing my brain to focus.

"...when another boy came into the room. He was wearing black jeans and a gray hoodie. It was zipped up and he had the hood pulled up over his head. He had his hands in the pockets of the sweatshirt."

Then it all came rushing back to me. I stared wide-eyed at my friend.

"Megan, he looked just like the boy who..."

I couldn't finish that sentence, but from the look in her eyes she knew. My hand crept over my abdomen to where the scar lay beneath. I could taste the bile rising in my throat, and I swallowed hard to keep it at bay.

"He looked just like the boy who shot me," I whispered. "That boy had his hands in his pockets before he pulled out the gun. That's why I panicked. It was all so similar. The boy on the table, him walking in, the sweatshirt, everything."

"I know, honey," Megan said in a comforting voice. "But Sweatshirt Boy was the other boy's brother. He just wanted to know if his brother was going to be all right."

"Oh, God," I cried as tears escaped from my eyes. "How could I have done something so irresponsible? That poor boy could have died because of me!"

"Don't worry about him; Dr. Kim has taken over his case and they're in surgery right now," Megan told me.

"Is he going to make it?"

"The CT didn't show any damage to any major organs, so it looks good."

Just then the door opened and Erik came in holding a can of Coke.

"How is the patient?" he asked.

"She'll be fine," Megan said, looking at me and patting my hand reassuringly. Even in the room's dim light I could tell she was blushing furiously.

"I need to get back," she said to me as she laid my hand back on the bed. "Call me, okay?"

I nodded.

Megan left, passing by Erik as he stood near the door. I noticed that she didn't look at him as she sidled by him and out the door.

I eyed him warily as he retook his seat across from me.

"What was that all about?"

"What?"

"Megan. She turned three shades of red when you came in here."

"Oh. That. I'm afraid I... well, I might have frightened her."

"Frightened her?"

"More like shocked her."

"What did you do?"

He said nothing.

"Erik?" I asked in a tone one might use when prying information out of a small child.

"Well..." He sounded very much the child the way he was hedging. "When she called me, it was on your cell phone."

"And..." I prompted him.

"I suppose she got it out of your bag and found my name programmed in it. Anyway, when my cell rang, I saw your name pop up on the screen."

"Go on," I said warily. I wasn't sure I liked where this was going.

"When I answered, I said something... inappropriate to her."

I blinked. "Inappropriate?"

Now it was Erik's turn to blush. "I thought it was you, on a break, calling for some... fun."

I stifled the laugh that threatened to erupt from somewhere deep down in my belly. What came out was a rather unladylike snort.

"What did you say to her?"

He raised his one visible eyebrow, fighting to regain his composure. "What I said is unimportant," he said haughtily. "I would rather like to forget it."

"I doubt she will," I said under my breath.

"I heard that," he retorted.

I raised an eyebrow at him in response as he moved to sit next to me on the bed. He propped my head in his lap.

"Let's just concentrate on getting you better. Drink this," he said, indicating the Coke he still held.

"I only wanted some water," I said as I took the can from him.

"They told me that the sugar would help revive you, and the caffeine would help with your headache."

He was right. I would have known that if I had been thinking more clearly. I took a couple of sips, and almost immediately I began feeling better. I sighed and leaned back against Erik's muscular body.

"Erik," I mused aloud, "How did I wind up in here?"

"You don't remember?"

I glared up at him in mock anger.

"If I could remember, I wouldn't have to ask, now would I?"

He scowled back at me in feigned exasperation.

"When I arrived, you were curled up in the fetal position in the examination room. I spoke to you, and you reached out to me. I held you as one of the doctors administered a sedative."

"That explains the ache in my backside," I mused. "What then?"

"After it took effect, we brought you in here to sleep it off."

"How long was I out?"

"About two hours, I'd say."

"I can't believe all this happened," I said as I took another swig of the soda. Then I held the can up to him. "Want some?"

He took it from me and took a tentative sip. "Ugh. I can't believe you actually like this swill," he said through a grimace. "It's like drinking liquid sugar."

"Sugar and caffeine in a convenient, easy-to-carry container," I said, taking it back from him. "It gets me through the day."

I looked up at him. "Erik, I want to go home," I said.

"Do you think you can stand up?"

"I think so."

I moved to the edge of the bed and swung my legs over the side. With Erik's help I sat up, but the room started spinning again. "Oh, shit," I moaned, holding one hand to my forehead and the other to my stomach.

"Easy, take it slowly," he said soothingly. "I'm here."

He rubbed my back with one hand as he sat beside me, waiting for the waves of dizziness to pass. With his free hand he pulled out his cell and punched a few numbers.

"Hello, this is Erik Bolieu," he said into the phone, "I would like a town car to pick me up at the emergency entrance of St. Vincent Hospital. Yes, immediately. Thank you."

He flipped the phone shut and replaced it in his pocket.

After a few minutes the dizziness finally passed, and I slowly got to my feet as Erik held me tightly.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"So far, so good," I joked.

He helped me into my coat and I gathered my things, which I supposed Megan had brought in while I was out cold, before we slowly made our way to the door. As I opened it, I saw that someone had taped a handwritten "Do Not Disturb" sign to the front to keep curious co-workers away. Smiling, I pulled it off and tossed it in the nearest trash bin.

As Erik guided me through the busy emergency room, I noticed several of my colleagues gaping with undisguised interest at the man who had such a tight hold on me he was practically doing my walking for me. One woman gave me the thumbs-up gesture, and another pantomimed a swoon, complete with the back of her hand drawn up to her forehead. Even Dr. Willis, an older gentleman who had become something of a mentor to me in my years at the hospital, smiled in approval. All of this, of course, was done out of Erik's line of sight. I gave the women disapproving looks, but inside I was gloating that the man they were drooling over was all mine.

The town car was already waiting for us as we exited through the sliding glass doors. Either they provide excellent service, or they provide excellent service for Erik. Either way, I was glad we didn't have to wait out in the cold. He solicitously helped me into the back seat and then got in next to me.

"I think we should go to your apartment so you can get some things, and then you are coming home with me so I can take care of you," he whispered in my ear.

I turned to him.

"But what about Spot? Surely you don't want him running around..."

"I would be pleased to have him as my guest," he retorted. "I have often thought about getting a pet."

I gave him a sidelong glance. I couldn't imagine white cat hair covering all of his lovely furniture.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked over his shoulder.

I gave him my address, and we slowly made our way through the city traffic.


	17. Chapter 16, Silver Linings

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 16  
****Silver Linings**

"Honestly, Erik, I can do that myself," I protested.

He came in the bedroom carrying a tray laden with more food than I could hope to eat in a week: a huge bowl of steaming chicken soup (because chicken soup cures all ills, apparently even freak-outs in hospital ERs), an enormous sandwich made on what looked like an entire loaf of freshly made French bread, a plate of beautifully arranged sliced fruit, a tall glass of milk, a cup of tea and (bless his little French heart) a can of Coke.

I propped some pillows behind me and sat up in bed. He climbed in next to me and balanced the tray on his legs.

Spot, having made himself comfortable at the foot of the bed, lifted his head and sniffed the air. He rose and stretched languidly, then re-settled himself beside me.

"I know you can," Erik said, "but you are my guest, and you need your rest, and I wanted to do this."

I opened my mouth to protest, but I knew any attempt at arguing with him was futile judging from the determined look in his eyes. He took advantage of my open mouth to pop in a succulent pineapple chunk. I had no choice but to eat it, but I stared daggers at him as I did.

He just smiled smugly at me.

"You play dirty," I grumbled.

"I know."

In retaliation for the fruit, I deliberately grabbed the soda can, opened it with a flourish and took a long, satisfying gulp.

"Mmmmm. Good."

He grimaced.

Now it was my turn to smile smugly.

I set the can back on the tray, and Erik took hold of my hand. His thumb gently traced circles over my knuckles. I looked up at him to find him gazing intently at me.

"Erik, I never thanked you for rescuing me at the hospital..."

"There's no need. All you ever have to do is call and I will be there for you."

He leaned over and kissed me. It was a soft, delicate kiss, and I felt it all the way down to my curled-up toes.

"If you haven't already figured it out, Christine, I love you."

He kissed me again. This time, there was nothing soft or delicate about it. This kiss was filled with passion, with want, with need; I nearly melted in his arms.

If it hadn't been for the lunch tray–and the bowl of hot soup–on his lap, I'm sure he would have had me on my back in the blink of an eye. As it was, he had to part from me to set the tray aside on the night table before he could accomplish what I'm sure were his nefarious plans for the afternoon.

As he turned back to me, ready for another kiss, I stopped him with a hand to his chest. He looked at me with an oddly quizzical expression.

"Before we go any farther, Erik, I want you to know that I love you too," I whispered to him.

He gazed at me with a blank expression on his face.

"You... you do?"

"Yes, you silly man. Of course I do. I've been in love with you since the first time I met you, back in your studio, with your paint-spattered work shirt and your gruff exterior. It was always you. I think fate must have brought us together."

"Fate. Yes," he agreed in a low purr as he leaned over me, his eyes bright with mischief.

I was growing impatient.

"Well, kiss me already," I demanded.

He didn't need to be told twice. He cradled the back of my head and gently touched his lips to mine in a delicate kiss. That sweetness didn't last long; soon he had me flat on my back down on the bed and our tongues were dancing against each other in that familiar erotic tango I had come to live for. One of his hands slowly slid down my side and rested at my hip, caressing me, driving me wild with that single touch.

I reached up to unbutton his shirt, but no sooner did I get the first button undone, he pulled away from me and sat up, leaning against the headboard.

Still out of breath, I sat up as well, facing him.

"Erik, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, my darling."

"Then, why..."

He put a finger to my lips to quiet me.

"Christine, you asked me not long ago about my mask and what lay under it. I said that only my family had ever seen my face."

I felt a lump form in my throat.

"Yes, I remember," I said.

He looked away from me.

"Do you still wish to see?"

I took a deep breath.

"Only if you wish to show me," I replied.

"If I show you, please promise me you will not leave me. I couldn't survive if you did."

"Erik, of course I won't leave you. I just told you that I love you."

Erik looked at me, his eyes glistening with the tears I knew he was fighting to hold back. I knew that this was the most difficult thing in the world for him to do, and he was trusting me, giving me his trust just as he gave me his heart. No matter what I saw under the mask, I had to be strong and remember that it was just Erik, just another part of the man I loved.

"All right."

Ever so slowly, he lifted his hand to his mask.

Then, an all-too-familiar, annoyingly happy little tune began playing in Erik's pants. We both jumped from the surprise. His cell phone was ringing.

"Oh, damn it all to hell!" he muttered.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

"I'm very sorry, but I have to take this call," he said to me.

"That's okay," I said.

He got up off the bed and answered the call, walking out of the room as I heard him say "Hello?"

So, I was left, frustrated and curious–and hungry. I reached over to the forgotten lunch tray and picked up half of the gigantic sandwich Erik had made for me. I took one bite of it when my cell phone began chirping away on the nightstand. I rolled my eyes, chewed like crazy, and picked up the infernal phone.

"Hello?"

"Christine?"

"Oh, hi, Dr. Kim. How are things at the hospital?"

"Busy. Very busy. I was calling to see how you were doing. I called your house and didn't get an answer. I take it you aren't there?"

"Oh... no, I'm staying with... a friend."

"The same friend who left with you the other day?"

"Ummm... well, yes."

"Well, that's good. Good, I mean, that you're not alone."

There was a long silence.

"Listen, Christine, about what happened..."

"I know, Dr. Kim,..."

"Christine, the hospital administrators are very worried about you. First the shooting, now this. Well,... I tried to change their minds, but..."

"But they dismissed me," I finished his sentence for him since he seemed reluctant to do so.

"I'm so very sorry."

I took a couple of deep breaths.

"Christine?" Dr. Kim's voice came over the phone. "Christine, are you still there?"

"You know, it's all right. It's going to be all right. Maybe all this happened for a reason."

"Well, I must say you're taking this much better than I thought you would."

I thought about that for a moment.

"So am I."

XXXXX

Erik came back in the bedroom a few minutes later as I took another bite of my sandwich. I smiled at him.

"So, who was on the phone?" I asked.

"That was Cynthia, from the gallery. Remember her?"

"No. Oh, wait, she was the mean one with the strange haircut, right?"

He laughed. "The very one. She wants to do an exhibition of my work next month."

In an instant I was up on my knees on the bed with my arms outstretched.

"Oh, Erik, that's wonderful!"

He joined me on the mattress and took me in his arms.

"Yes, I'm thrilled. Imagine, an entire show of my work. It's what I've dreamed about."

"Well. Your paintings are wonderful. You deserve it. And soon everyone will know how talented you are."

He kissed me.

"Even your family," I whispered into his ear.

He smiled.

"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves," he said with a laugh.

We settled back in the bed, lying in each other's arms.

"And I know which piece will be the focal point of the exhibit," he said to me.

"Which one?" I asked.

He pointedly looked to the opposite wall, the wall with the fireplace–and my portrait hanging above it.

I sat up, straight as a board.

"Oh, no! No way in hell!"

"Whyever not? It's beautiful, you said so yourself!"

"It... it is," I sputtered, trying desperately to find some way out of this. "But you just can't show that painting! Erik, you can't! I'm naked!"

"Yes you are, and you're beautiful."

"But the whole world can't see me like that!"

"You are my love, and my muse, and that painting is by far my best work. I have to show it."

"No, Erik. You can't," I pleaded. "Please."

"Well, then, what would you have me do?"

I thought wildly for a moment.

"Paint me again, with _clothes on _this time, and you can show that one," I suggested.

"Ah, there's an idea," he mused. "But your work schedule will interfere."

I looked up at him. "Actually, it won't," I said quietly. "While you were taking your call, I got one too. It seems that the ER can't have a doctor who freaks out at the drop of a hat. So I'm no longer needed."

Erik put his arms around me and held me tightly.

"They are fools for letting you go, my darling. But I am the richer for it. We shall start tomorrow."

In a matter of mere seconds we were both relieved of our clothing and happily engaging in our favorite pastime.

XXXXX

"We were distracted," Erik said to me in the darkness.

Day had dissolved into night, and we lay spooned together admiring the view of the city through the bedroom's floor-to-ceiling windows. He lazily stroked my arm, stopping every so often to kiss my shoulder, or my ear, or any other part of me within easy reach.

"Hm?"

"Before the phone rang, I was about to... show you..." he trailed off, not quite able to actually say the words.

"Oh. Yes. That."

I sat up in bed and faced him in the near darkness, a knot quickly forming in the pit of my stomach. I had thought about this moment many times with a combination of dread and anticipation. True, I told him that whatever lay under his mask would not change my feelings for him, but what if it did? What if it was so horribly grotesque that I couldn't even look at him? He told me about the girl years ago who saw his face and never saw him again. Would I be just like that girl? I loved him, I knew that in the deepest recesses of my heart, but would that be enough?

"I see doubt on your face," he said quietly as he sat up and faced me. "Do you still want to see?"

I raised one hand and laid it on his bare cheek. "Yes," was all I said.

He took a deep breath and lifted his hand to the mask. His fingers grasped the top edges along his hairline, and the mask slowly peeled away from his face. He kept his head bowed, afraid to look at me.

When I saw that he wouldn't look up on his own, I lifted his chin until his face was fully visible to me. I saw that he kept his eyes closed.

He was right: it wasn't pretty. The skin he kept hidden was twisted, discolored and scarred. It seemed that his original disfigurement had been made worse by botched surgeries some time in the past. He had no eyebrow on that side of his face, and his lower eyelid drooped without the support of the mask.

But this was my Erik, and I loved him, and nothing–not even this disfigurement–would change that.

"Erik," I whispered to him in the darkness.

He still did not open his eyes.

"Erik, look at me," I said again.

After a long moment he finally met my gaze. He looked like a poor dog waiting to be whipped.

I put my hand on his mangled cheek. The skin seemed too warm and moist from constantly being hidden behind the mask and not being allowed to breathe.

"I love you. I love all of you," I said quietly.

His expression changed. He had a look of wonder in his eyes.

"You do?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course I do, you silly man! Nothing will ever change that!"

I leaned over and kissed him. He threw his arms around me, holding on for dear life it seemed, as he kissed me back.

"Oh, Christine, you have made me so happy!"

He kissed me again.

I finally pushed him away from me. "All right now, we have to stop this," I said.

"Whyever should we do that?" he asked.

I smiled at him. "Because we have a big day tomorrow. You have to begin work on your new masterpiece!"


	18. Chapter 17, Erik's Opening

_Hello all– Sorry it has taken me so long to get this chapter to you. Living with chronic pain is a real pain (pun intended), and the past few weeks have been particularly difficult for me. This is the final chapter, but there will be an epilogue (which I will post in a few days). I would like to thank all of you who posted reviews, favorited, alerted and took the time to read my little tale. It means a lot to me. Y'all rock!_

**A Thousand Words  
****Chapter 17  
Erik's Opening**

Erik was a rock star.

His exhibition at the gallery was a smash, and everyone there clamored to shake his hand or have a photo taken with him or just be near him. He truly was the man of the hour. I could tell–since he hardly let go of my hand the entire evening–that all the attention unsettled him at first, but he gradually got into the spirit of things and finally let himself enjoy being the center of attention.

I have to admit that I was a little uncomfortable myself at first, since I'm not used to so many people fawning all over me. Who am I kidding? I'm not used to _anyone_ fawning all over me! But, since Erik's new portrait of me was the centerpiece of his exhibit, I suppose it was to be expected.

I was so glad I talked him out of putting the nude portrait on display. This new one was drawing enough attention on its own.

Erik grudgingly agreed to the new portrait, and he painted me in roughly the same reclining position, on the same shabby sofa in his studio. This time, however, I was wearing a knee-length spaghetti-strap gown. Of course, he wouldn't let me see the work in progress, so I was shocked to see that he had painted me lying on what appeared to be a bed of Persian tapestried cushions, wearing a silver silk chemise that was drawn up seductively on my thighs and with one strap falling down my shoulder. He painted my hair in wild curls falling about my shoulders, and the expression on my face gave even the most casual observer no question as to what was on my mind.

"_Erik!_" I cried in mortification when I finally saw the finished product.

"Yes?" he asked innocently, but with a devilish smirk on his face. "Is there something wrong?"

"This is almost as bad as the first one! You can't show this!"

"Oh, but I can! You said I could do another portrait and show that one. You_ demanded _it. This is it."

He crossed his arms and grinned at me.

"But... but..."

"But nothing, my dear. I obeyed your rules. You are clothed. You are decent."

"But it's so _decadent_!"

"That wasn't specified in your request."

"Erik, please!"

"I'm showing this, and that's final."

I punched him in the arm. "You play dirty!"

He smiled broadly. "Yes, I know."

So now, standing here in the gallery, trying _not _to look at that portrait, I observed all the people milling about who _were_ looking at it. Staring at it. Gawking at it. Leering at it. And when they realized that I was the model for the portrait, they began leering at me. It gave me the creeps.

There were lots of "artsy" people there, lots of well-heeled people who hopefully would buy some of Erik's work or commission him to paint for them, and lots of friends.

Erik's family even came over from Paris. Erik introduced me to them as soon as they arrived, and even though they didn't speak English nearly as well as he did, they were very polite and we managed to carry on a decent conversation. His parents seemed to be truly impressed with both their son's work and with the exhibit in general. His brother Jacques was with his wife Emilie. I guessed that they had worked through their marital difficulties, whatever they were, since it seemed that they couldn't seem to keep their hands off each other–holding hands, linking arms, etc.

I saw Megan on the far side of the room and excused myself from Erik to go say hello to her.

"Oh, Christine," she exclaimed as she hugged me, "I miss you so much! The ER just isn't the same without you!"

"You know, I kind of miss it too," I replied. "But only sometimes," I added.

We both laughed.

"You look beautiful," Megan remarked, nodding to my dress. I splurged at a little boutique and bought a sleek little wine-colored dress with a low neckline. It showed off Erik's rose necklace very well.

"Thanks, Megan. You look great, too."

"So, what have you been doing with yourself?" she asked.

"You mean, besides my new modeling career?" I inquired with a grin, gesturing to the infamous portrait.

"I can't believe that's you!" Megan enthused as she dragged me back in the direction of the canvas in question. "You look so very beautiful! Of course you are, but to have a real painting of yourself... He's so talented. I wish someone would paint me like that!"

"I wish he hadn't," I said quietly.

"Why?" Megan's eyes grew round. "I'd kill to have someone paint me."

"I just didn't want him to display it like this," I replied.

"Christine," a deep voice said in my ear as a hand clasped my shoulder.

I turned to find Randy standing behind me.

"Randy!" I exclaimed. "I'm so glad you could come." I threw my arms around him just as his found their way around me.

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

"I thought that after the last time we spoke..."

"About that," he began as he pulled me aside, "I shouldn't have said all those things. I'm really sorry."

"You were just saying what was in your heart, Randy."

"Maybe, but I had no right to dump it all on you. I can see you're happy with him."

"I am," I said with a smile.

Forgive me?"

"Of course."

He smiled back at me. "Just promise me that if he ever mistreats you, you'll call me so I can kick his ass?"

I laughed. "It's a promise."

"Good. Now, where's this infamous portrait I've heard so much about?"

"It's right here," Megan piped up, gesturing beside her.

Randy turned to view the painting as he released his hold of me. He whistled long and low as he viewed the canvas.

For some reason I felt even more uncomfortable having Randy see it than anyone else. I thought quickly of a diversion.

"Randy, I want you to meet one of my dear friends. Megan, this is Randy Chastain. Randy, Megan Goddard."

"A pleasure," Randy said as he took Megan's hand.

Megan blushed three shades of red as Randy gallantly kissed the back of her hand.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Do you think you can show me the finer points of the exhibit?" he asked Megan.

"Sure," she replied.

Randy turned to me. "Please excuse us," he said with a small smile.

"Of course," I said with a grin.

Randy took Megan's arm as she led him to the far side of the gallery.

I glanced about for Erik and found him, with prune-faced Cynthia, surrounded by reporters and photographers–not his favorite people. He looked like he'd rather be in front of a firing squad.

I made my way over to him.

"If you will please excuse us," Erik said to those around him as he took my arm, "We have urgent business."

"Took you long enough," Erik whispered to me. "I'd been trying to get your attention for the past ten minutes."

"Oh, stop whining," I said with a grin.

"But Erik, when will you play for us?" one of the group called after us, gesturing to the sleek black grand piano occupying one corner of the main gallery room.

"Oh yes, you must play!" exclaimed another.

My grip on Erik's arm tightened. He looked down at me as I glanced up at him.

"You did ask to have the piano here, Erik," I whispered to him.

"I'll only play if you sing," he whispered in my ear.

"No way!"

"Then I won't play."

"But you said you would."

"I take it back."

I glared up at him. "You promised," I hissed at him.

"Fine. I'll play one song, then we'll sing a duet. How about that?"

I could have slugged him, the way he smirked at me. He knew he had me over a barrel. If I didn't sing with him, he wouldn't play. And by now, a rather large group of people had gathered around the piano–and us–waiting for something magical to happen.

"OK. You win. But I don't like it."

He led me to the piano and sat at the bench. I stood behind him where I could watch his hands as he played. I loved to watch his fingers deftly move over the keys. It was hypnotizing.

Erik began playing. It was the same piece he played for me at his apartment. His fingers flew over the keys, filling the gallery with the most beautiful, haunting music anyone there had ever heard. His body swayed as he played, his eyes closed, caught up in the emotions he created and poured into every person there. I watched their expressions as Erik played, and they all reflected mine the first time I heard the music–haunting desire, unimaginable loneliness, everlasting hope.

My hand went to my throat and touched the gold rose that dangled from its chain as I remembered the story Erik told me about its origin. If it was true, that story could be told with this music.

As the last notes faded away, the room burst into applause. Erik grinned and even blushed a little as he murmured his thanks.

"Thank you very much," Erik said as the applause died down. "If you'd like to hear another..."

Before he could continue, the room broke out into more applause with an "Encore!" or two thrown in for good measure.

"I suppose that answers that question," Erik said with a smile. "I'd like to ask the lovely Christine Denton to join me for this song."

More applause as Erik put an arm around me and guided me to stand at the side of the piano, where we could see each other.

Leaning over to whisper to me, he said, "Bridge?"

Nervously, I nodded.

Erik played the opening chords to "Bridge over Troubled Water," and a few murmurs of recognition rippled through the crowd. I was a little shaky, but I opened my mouth to sing.

Erik took the second verse, then played the musical bridge, and then we sang in harmony on the third verse.

As the final chord died away, the room burst into applause once more. I glanced at Erik, who stood and took my hand. We both took a bow, and the applause did not show any signs of stopping. We bowed again and again.

Cries of "More!" reverberated through the gallery. Erik glanced at me, hoping I'd agree to sing another song, but I backed away.

"This one's all you," I said with a grin.

He finally shrugged one shoulder and retook his position at the piano. Erik thought for a moment, then looked up at me with a sweet smile as his fingers hovered over the ivory keys.

A sweet melody began, and then Erik began to sing.

_If a picture paints a thousand words  
__Then why can't I paint you?  
The words will never show  
__The you I've come to know.  
If a face could launch a thousand ships  
__Then where am I to go?  
There's no one home but you  
__You're all that's left me too.  
And when my love for life is running dry  
__You come and pour yourself on me._

Erik glanced up at me. I had a tear in my eye and quickly swiped it away as I smiled at him.

_If a man could be two places at one time  
__I'd be with you.  
Tomorrow and today  
__Beside you all the way.  
If the world should stop revolving  
__Spinning slowly down to die,  
I'd spend the end with you  
__And when the world was through,  
Then one by one the stars would all go out  
__And you and I would simply fly away._

More applause. Cameras and cell phones took an untold number of photos; I knew some of them would wind up on the Internet within a matter of minutes. Someone shoved champagne flutes in our hands, and we clinked glasses in a toast. That set off more flashes. Then Erik leaned down to kiss me.

"Christine...," he whispered in my ear, "my Christine..."

The breathiness of his voice sent shivers down my spine. He took the glass from my hand and set both his and mine on the piano. Then he took both my hands in his and sank to one knee in front of me.

All chatter in the gallery immediately stilled.

"Erik, what...?"

"My darling Christine, in the short time we've known each other, I have known happiness, joy, laughter, and... love. I never in my life dared to dream that I'd find a woman who would love me as I am, but you have seen past the surface and come to know and love the real me, the me inside. And for that, I love you all the more."

A tear coursed down my cheek, and I hurriedly swiped it away.

"Christine, my love, will you do me the immense honor of becoming my wife?"

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a diamond ring and held it up to me. A very large diamond ring. There was no fancy box; he didn't need all the bells and whistles. The ring spoke for itself.

I heard gasps and "Oh!"s and even a few sobs and sniffles from the crowd around us.

I stood there, frozen.

Erik remained in front of me, still on one knee, holding the ring up to me, a hopeful look on his face.

The room was silent.

Finally, someone in the crowd said, "Well, say 'yes' already!"

Nervous laughter erupted around the room.

A sob burst from my chest, then I grabbed both his hands and pulled him to standing. Grinning, I finally said the one word he had waited for me to say: "Yes."

"Yes?" he asked, hardly believing my response.

"Yes, you silly man!" I threw my arms around him and kissed him.

The entire room burst into applause.

"I love you," I said against his lips.

"And I you," he responded.

He pulled away to take hold of my left hand and slide the ring home on my finger. It was a perfect fit. Just as we were.

XXXXX

Everyone at the gallery wanted to offer their congratulations. Somewhere along the way Erik and I were separated. When I had a chance to look around for him, I saw him in a small group, seemingly comfortable, so I took the time to scan the rest of the room.

I saw Erik's parents, arm in arm, happily perusing their son's art. Judging from their expressions, they were impressed.

I saw my former colleague Dr. Kim and started to go talk to him, when I realized that he was talking to the dour-faced Cynthia. They seemed to be in the middle of a conversation. And then something amazing happened–Cynthia smiled! As I watched her in wonder, marveling that she even knew how to smile, I remarked that she even looked kind of pretty when she wasn't busy looking all prune-faced.

I also saw Megan and Randy, who seemed to be joined at the hip, enjoying a glass of champagne and gazing at each other like lovesick puppies.

I wondered to myself: can love be contagious? 

_The lyrics are from "If," written by David Gates, made popular by the '70s group Bread. I know I'm dating myself with this song–I may not be as old as dirt, but I am older than the tree in my front yard! I actually took the name for this fic from the lyrics of this particular song. Duh. –ls_


	19. Epilogue

**A Thousand Words  
****Epilogue  
****The Greatest Adventure**

"Is there a doctor in the house?"

I heard Erik's voice out in the waiting room. He never tired of making that silly little joke, and for some strange reason I never tired of hearing it. I rose from my desk chair and went to the door of my private office, opening the door just as he approached it from the other side.

"Hey there, stranger," I said with a tired smile.

I went out into the empty waiting room and plopped down in one of the chairs.

"Busy day?" he asked as he sat down beside me.

"Oh, just the usual. Sniffles, scrapes and one really bad case of conjunctivitis."

I tried my best to stretch out my back to relieve the pain that had been bothering me all day.

Since becoming a family practice physician here in this small town in upstate New York, I can honestly say I have never been happier: the stress of working in a big-city emergency room is gone, and I have been able to truly enjoy my job for the first time in years.

And, of course, there's Erik. Our life together has been everything I ever could have hoped for. We have a beautiful home out in the country, I have my office in town and he transformed the old barn on our property into his studio. He paints there. A lot. Commissions have been coming in left and right, so much so that he can barely keep up with them.

Yes, life is good.

"Your back is bothering you again."

"Well, you try carrying around all this extra weight in front of you and see how it affects your back," I said to him with a grin, laying a hand on my protruding belly. He lovingly placed a hand on mine, caressing me and our unborn child at the same time.

Throughout the pregnancy Erik never tired of touching my swollen abdomen, waiting for signs of life inside. I remember the tears that welled in his eyes the first time he actually felt movement in my womb as well as the laughter the first time he felt the little one kicking.

"Two weeks," I said with a sigh. I absently fingered the rose necklace draped around my neck.

"Yes, two weeks, and then our lives will never be the same."

He gazed at me, his eyes filled with emotion. Even though all the ultrasounds proved that the baby was perfect, Erik still harbored fears that the baby would inherit his facial deformity. No amount of technological evidence to the contrary seemed to be enough to sway him.

"That's a good thing," I said pointedly, looking him straight in the eyes and placing my hand on his mask.

Erik smiled, but I could tell he was still a little afraid.

"And, Erik–when we get home this evening, we have to take down that portrait from our bedroom."

His gray-green eyes bored into me. "Why?"

"Because I won't have a nude picture of me on display in our home with a child there."

"But Christine, the baby won't even know–"

I shook my head vehemently. "It doesn't matter. I'll know, and I won't have it. We can put the newer one up in its place."

"If we do take it down," Erik asked, "what will we do with it?"

"I don't know... store it in the attic, or put it somewhere–discreetly–in your studio. Just not on display in the house."

After a year of marriage, he knew better than to argue with me, especially when hormones were raging throughout my body. "Fine," was all he said.

I grinned, having won another battle of wills with my Erik.

We sat in a happy silence in the quiet of the waiting room for a few moments.

"Oh!" I jumped up–or, rather, I hoisted myself up–from the chair. "I almost forgot. Wait here."

I went back into my office, leaving Erik alone amidst a sea of empty chairs and old magazines. When I re-emerged from my office, he was busy neatly stacking periodicals on one of the side tables. I wanted to kiss him for being so thoughtful.

I snuck up behind him and handed him a gift. "Happy anniversary," I whispered in his ear.

He turned to me in surprise. "I thought we agreed we weren't going to get each other gifts since we had spent so much on the baby's things," he said with a stern look on his face.

"It's not much at all," I defended myself. "You'll see. Open it."

He sat down, inspecting the package, eyeing it from all sides.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, it's not going to blow up in your face, just open it!"

After giving me a look of total exasperation, he finally untied the bow and peeled back the paper.

Erik looked up at me quizzically.

"It's the ad you placed, the one I answered, for an artist's model. I kept it all this time. Since paper is the traditional gift for the first anniversary, and this piece of paper is what brought us together, I had it framed for you."

He lovingly ran a hand over the glass, studying the tiny newspaper clipping underneath. Then he looked back up at me. I could swear there were tears in his eyes.

"Oh, Christine, this means so much to me. Thank you."

"I would do anything for you. I'd even have your baby. Oh, wait–I'm already doing that, aren't I? Anything else you'd like me to do?"

"Just shut up and kiss me." He put one hand on my cheek and leaned in for a long, sweet kiss.

Not that I wanted to, but I broke off the kiss as another spasm shot through my back. I tried to massage it away, but it was very persistent.

"Are you all right?"

"More back pains," I said. "It'll be OK."

"I have something for you as well," he said with an impish grin.

"Erik..."

"Not to worry, it's something I made. I didn't spend any money on it."

He reached down beside his chair and picked up a gift bag that was decorated with more ribbons and bows than I'd ever seen before on one present. I had to laugh at Erik's attempt at wrapping; why use just one bow when twelve would suffice? It was so... Erik.

I peeked in the bag and pulled out a parchment scroll with wooden dowels attached to the top and bottom edges. He had artfully painted a message on the paper. It was similar to one he made when I first opened my practice–that one had _THE DOCTOR IS IN _on one side and _THE DOCTOR IS OUT _on the other side, and I turned it around on the main office door to indicate whether the office was open or closed.

"See, it's paper as well," he said happily.

"Oh, Erik, this is wonderful," I said. "But I'll have to wait two weeks to be able to use it!"

But the Fates had other ideas about that. Just as I was complaining about the two weeks, I felt a rush of warmth between my legs and another sharp pain. I looked up at my husband with wide eyes.

"Maybe not," I whispered.

"What is it?"

"My water just broke."

"Your wa..."

He glanced down and saw the darkened stain on my skirt. His eyes grew even larger than mine.

"_Mon Dieu_. It's time," he rasped.

"Yes, I think so."

"You... you're in labor?" he asked incredulously.

"It would seem so," I said with a smile.

"How did you not know this? You're a doctor!"

"Erik, my darling, I may be a doctor, but I've never been pregnant before! I thought I was experiencing simple back pains, not labor pains!"

He ran a hand nervously through his hair as he stood up. "What do we do?"

I laughed nervously. "I think we have a baby."

"But we're not ready!"

I got to my feet. "Erik, whether we're ready or not, the baby's ready. Just take a deep breath." He did. I took him by the arm. "We'll go to the hospital, I'll call Dr. Chen on the way there, and everything will be just fine."

"Yes, everything will be fine," he repeated. "Everything will be fine. I'll go start the car. You lock up."

He left in a swirl of anxiety. I went back in my office to get my bag and jacket. As I was about to lock up the front door, I remembered Erik's gift. I picked it up and replaced the old sign on the door with the new one.

Erik's new sign contained a drawing of a stork carrying a bundle in its beak. It read_: _

_THE DOCTOR IS ON MATERNITY LEAVE.  
__NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO GET SICK_.

I locked up the office and prepared for the greatest adventure of my life.

vvvvvv

_Well, that's it. It's all over now. The fat lady has sung. Elvis has left the building._  
_Please take a few seconds to send off a quick review–let me know if you liked, hated, were indifferent...  
I have an idea for a new fic, but I probably won't post for a bit 'cuz I want to get a few chapters written and see if it's really going to pan out. Hopefully, I'll see y'all again soon!  
–ls_


End file.
